


Sally's Story

by nandroidtales



Category: Emmy The Robot (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 31,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28168035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nandroidtales/pseuds/nandroidtales
Kudos: 8





	1. Sales Pitch

The din of traffic muffled the man’s hurried practicing, mumbled words lost in the roar of cars passing the hulking precinct building. Stepping through the broad glass door, clutching his hat as it was blown half-off his head, he made his way to the secretary’s desk situated square in the center of the sprawling polished floors, blue-uniformed men and women scurrying throughout the building, pouring into and out of the elevators arms full of files and reports. His shoes squeaked on the newly waxed floor, little echoes ricocheting around the mute building as he paced along with his briefcase, finally reaching the large circular desk.  
“How may I help you, sir?”  
“I have an appointment with the commissioner, thank you. Last n-”  
“Last name,” she interrupted.  
“Last name Watkins, first name George.” The woman flipped through a thick booklet of appointments, meetings and police minutia, the little window he’d been squeezed into just enough time to make his pitch. The secretary continued, fetching a small file to flip through, signing off on several forms. Finally she produced a lanyard looped through a neatly stamped and signed card, then pointed to the elevator to the commissioner’s office.  
Entering the glass box he straightened his tie before clicking the button for his destination, the main hall falling away as he passed floor after floor of sprawling office space and administrative drudgery. With a shudder the elevator came to a stop on a less dismal floor of the building, carpeted hallways and fine wooden doors hinting at the nexus of the building’s office complex. Stepping out George paced into the main room, following convenient arrows and signs towards his destination. A curt knock on the door and a gruff man let him in, his broad form the grizzled image of a veteran of the last generation’s war, and not of the rotund, old-money elite who had previously held the office. Watkins removed his fedora and coat as he entered the small room. A handshake exchanged and the two were seated, still waiting on a proper introduction, however. Crawley was a man of brevity and frank words, and was known for his often blunt lines of questioning.  
“So who are you?”  
“A pleasure Commissioner Crawley, a pleasure indeed. As I’m sure you’ve been apprised, I’ll dispense with the spiel from Sterling that you’re likely expecting. I’m George Watkins, chief officer for the Municipal Applications Division at Sterling Robotics. I’m here to-”  
“Yes, that’s nice, but you’ll have to pull me up to speed here son, I’m as much an expert on these robots as anyone else.” Watkins paused, Crawley glaring expectantly back at him. “Well?”  
“W-Well, Commissioner Crawley, Sterling has a long and storied history in the domestic market, namely with our famous and universally praised home-aides, the nandroids. However the recent direction of the company has been in more… *utilitarian* applications for the platform. There’s been a lot of development in applications for municipal roles, and it was believed that the Beacon City Police Department would be an ideal testing ground.”  
“So you want to sell me an experimental line of maid robots, each at least a few grand each?”  
“Oh, not at all! You see, the trick of a nandroid’s cost is in the specialization and quality control. The platform, the scaffolding they’re built on, is itself very affordable. What we’re suggesting is changing the, er, ‘stuffing’ for something more applicable to the police force.”  
“You mean bureaucrats? Robot secretaries?”  
“Not precisely. There’s been a lot of development in a more useful direction, one that won’t impinge upon human employment as much. I’m sure you’re aware as much as the people are of how crime has been trending, yes?”  
“Unfortunately yes, I am. Are you suggesting robot police officers then? I’m sure you’ve already done up a lot of prototypes, but those robots are too small, son. They’re twigs compared to some of my boys and, frankly, can’t get the job done. Hell, I’d even wager-”  
“Not cops, Mister Crawley, not cops,” he interrupted. “We were thinking something more ‘cerebral’, a line of portable, thinking models meant to supplement investigations and detectives in the field. One of the chief issues, and I mean no offense, sincerely, in Beacon City is the rate of crimes gone unsolved. What we can do is offer you a mobile supplement to keep cases warm and out of the reach of the statute of limitations.”  
“See that, George, is an idea. Issue is getting half these trench-coated assholes to accept something that could do their job better than them. I love ‘em to death, but the ornery bastards swear by tradition, not results.”  
“Oh I assure you the SALLE line of robots won’t be *taking* anyone’s jobs, not at all - just making them easier, more efficient. Allow me to elucidate - imagine if you will a device that can accompany a detective to the scene of a crime and, with no fingerprints, a criminal psychology database, and the ability to make snap calculations that would take weeks in the lab, can easily piece together the timeline of a scene in seconds or minutes rather than weeks.”  
“That… that sounds damned interesting to me George, the CSI division is new enough that a shake up like that won’t put anyone out of work. Keep going.”  
“Oh, uh, well - the ‘Sterling Adjunct to Local Law Enforcement’, SALLE, is essentially a meticulously designed computer analytic system that we’ve wedged into a nandroid’s frame - hence the idea of the ‘platform’ earlier. Sally robots have the tools I listed before, and their minds are hardwired to do the cold, data-based thinking that detectives often don’t have time for. This also includes being essentially a walking notebook to hold onto a detective’s thoughts, avenues for interviews, etcetera. I failed to mention some helpful chemical analysis addons.”  
“Tell me more about those.”  
“Well, a standard nandroid can feel things like temperature, pressure, shape and texture - but they also have a delicate system for chemical concentrations, namely to make sure they don’t accidentally over-salt foods and such, or to make sure kids don’t poison themselves. A Sally V. robot, for instance, could test for the presence of narcotics, where a Sally H. could test for firearms residue.”  
“What’s with the V and H?”  
“Ah, right. One caveat is if you want a robot custom-made for solving crimes, they’re limited to a certain scope of crime; restrictions of memory, education, etcetera. Vice, homicide, arson and traffic - we’ve been developing one for each, naturally, but so far have only finished the V model.” The older man paused in thought, his piercing brown eyes blinking quickly before looking back up.  
“Son, I’m not one to swing on the first pitch but you’ve thrown a hell of a ball here. I of all people know how bad things are getting out there,” he said, glancing out the small window. “And what you’re offering me is something that could make things just that much better, and easier on the boys, too.”  
“So - how do you feel?”  
“You’ve got me in a tight spot here, ‘cause I can safely assume there’s nothing else like this out there, correct?”  
“Yes, I can assure you of that.” The commissioner scratched at his black hair as his face twisted in thought. “And for what you’re buying, the cost *is* comparable to an, I don’t know, an older model nandroid. Modern frame, simpler training - relatively speaking,” the division chief said.  
“Alright then, but we can dispense with buying a city’s-worth of them, though. I’ll see to getting you the cash for a single one, a test drive if you will. But I can tell this is something that will warrant a little extra spending, based on what you're throwing out.” The slim man nodded his affirmation before standing from his seat, swinging his coat over his arm.  
“In that case, Commissioner Crawley, I believe our business for today is concluded. I do hope I’ll be back here soon enough, however, and your new Sally will be in as soon as possible.”  
“One last question, George,” the commissioner started. “The unfortunate truth is these robots will be in danger more than ‘too often’ can capture. What I’m asking is whether or not these little robots can handle themselves in a scuffle.” The young man opposite paused to think, struggling with an answer that wouldn’t fudge the deal while trying to avoid any legally dubious embellishments. He settled on the classic answer for almost any ‘can they do this?’ situation, erring on the side of optimism for the prototype robots.  
“They can be taught, yes. It’s Sterling policy not to teach anything how to kill or handle implements meant to kill, but in this case we’ve opened an exception inside of them. Obviously we’ve left the onus of filling that space on police departments because training varies, but like I said it’s there.”  
“Excellent, that’s just the answer I was looking for,” he said, some hidden disquiet soothed. “Well, Mister Watkins, I do believe we're done for today.” The men shook hands again and a third time after some pleasantries. The commissioner escorted the young corporate employee-cum-salesman back to the elevator, written affirmation of the deal stowed in his briefcase. As the pair waited for the car to ascend the building they spoke over little daily bobs of discussion from the sports to the weather to the economy. A small chime from the elevator and the squeaking open of its doors signaled to the one man his time to depart. In his last few seconds, holding the door open as it repeatedly tried to shut him off, he assured the commissioner his new robot would be arriving post haste and ready for work ‘out of the box’. Smiling he pulled his arm from the doors and was shrouded behind the metal slabs as the elevator fell away once more.


	2. Pandora's Box

Vincent la Fontaine was, by all traces of the imagination, *not* the image of the classic detective - his sunny demeanor was complimented by a thick shag of wavy, brown hair on his head hanging above an equally dense moustache and pair of sideburns. Each step was swagger-filled, cocky even, the fluted bells around his ankles swishing and contorting with each step. The up-and-coming Vice detective was supremely cool and confident and had rapidly left behind his comrades on the beat, earning his promotion upon breaking up a sizable bet-fixing operation on the city’s north end.   
Still wearing his ever-present smile he paced deeper into the annals of the city’s main precinct before rounding to his desk in the Vice department. Reclining in his chair he lit up a cigarette before rifling through the assorted notes and letters on his desk. Mindlessly flipping through the sheets of papers between drags on his cigarette he spared a thought for his old partner, just retired after finishing a big case on a splinter ring of weathermen running drugs to fund their ‘revolution’. Fingers resting on the inane little envelopes he was alerted by a whistle at the door of the office floor where stood the commissioner himself.  
“Vince, I got somethin for you. Important business,” Crawley said.  
“Right away, sir,” he returned, scrambling to pull his feet from his desk and sit at attention. The narrow detective quickly followed behind the stocky veteran as they made their way to the elevator, sinking into the bowels of the precinct where a sprawling complex was hidden away, meant predominantly for specialized training and practice and, less ostentatiously, the loading dock and garage. Stepping out of the elevator into the humid concrete basement Crawley directed Vincent around into one of the smaller delivery areas before pointing to a large wooden crate.   
“Alright Vince, good news and bad news. Since your partner’s gone you’ll be getting a new partner. Bad news is you’re the senior detective now.”  
“So why we down here then?”   
“Well, you see Vince, with the pace technology has been taking, we - meaning I - decided to try something newer, more modern, more experimental and theoretical. Something that leaves the investigating and thinking to you, and the heavy lifting to something that can do it more quickly, ideally on the scene.”  
“And that’s in the box, I assume?” Crawley tossed him a pry bar and nodded. Vincent stepped over and wedged the bar into the side beneath the lid, jimmying the bar repeatedly as it cracked and buckled, slowly running the pry bar repeatedly around the box before the lid finally popped off. There floating in a sea of wood shavings was the lithe little form of a Sterling nandroid, messy copper hair laying frazzled around her head. She lacked the stereotypical accoutrements of her more dainty sisters, an elegant dress replaced by a simple grey sports bra and pair of briefs, the hefty charging chair by a thick extension cord and adapter.  
“You’re kidding me,” Vincent said looking back up. “You got me a robot maid as my partner? I mean this is ridiculous man, I-”  
“Save it, Vince. She’s in the same frame but what you’ve got here is a purpose-made anti-crime computer system. She’ll tag behind you on a case and do some of the technical stuff on a scene, okay? These robots are a stop gap, they make your job easier so you can focus on investigating and doing it faster.”  
“I- It’s a robot maid, sir, what good can it be to me?”  
“Look. You’re down a partner, you need one. Here she is. You teach her how to handle a gun and keep notes and she’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth.”  
“Crawley, I really don’t know about this. These things are… frail, you know?”  
“The folks at Sterling assured me she’s been retrofitted for police service. She’s not walking the beat or anything but she’s not made of glass, son. Charge her up and get her ready to work, okay?” Vincent’s face squirmed just a little bit, his youth encouraging him to embrace this change while memories and nostalgia for his partner crashed against that enthusiasm. He’d only been gone a few weeks but he could really use one of his quips, so filled with wisdom and experience, to help him through this transition. It was an odd move to thrust such a responsibility on a new detective and Vincent was justly dumbfounded. Rising from his spot kneeling at the box’s side, he straightened his face and turned to the commissioner.  
“Understood, sir. I’ll get to it.”  
“That’s what I like to hear Vince, Joe’d be proud of you, taking charge like this,” he said, clapping a hand on the detective’s back. “Now plug her in and get to setting up your new partner.”  
“Right away, sir.” Vincent knelt back down to scoop up the light robot, slinging her limp form over his shoulder as he looped the cord over the other. The pair returned to the elevator, the derelict crate scooted over to trash pickup as a flurry of patrol cars changed places in the garage complex.

Back in the Vice office Vincent searched vainly for an outlet anywhere convenient near his desk. As he ducked and crawled among his neighbor’s desks a knock sounded on the top of the one he was currently crouched under, rocketing his head into its underside with a hollow thump. Rubbing his head he emerged face to face with the gentle figure of the department secretary, unsympathetic green eyes locking with Vincent’s as he crawled back out from under the desk.  
“Lose some change Vincent? I can spot you something for the coffee machine, you know,” she said.  
“I appreciate the offer, Sherry,” he returned, standing up. Wiping his knees he spied the thick booklet she held and then slammed on his desk. “Oh? Package for me?”  
“Crawley told me to deliver this to you, said it’s a manual for- The hell is that?” Vincent turned to follow the woman’s eyes to his chair where sat, slumped backwards like a drunk, his new partner. Leaning casually on the wall Vince threw his hair back and brought back his characteristic smile for the lady.  
“Oh you know, just high-importance police intelligence hardware,” he said, inspecting his nails nonchalantly. “I’ll be the first in the force with a *robot partner*. Pretty big deal.”  
“Didn’t know they’d let you bring your sex-doll, Vince.” The verbal suckerpunch sent him reeling as she chuckled and returned to her station, sashaying out of the windowed Vice wing.  
“Damn thing,” he said, staring angrily at the half-nude robot. Turning back to the disappearing secretary he shouted after her. “Hey Sherry! Can you lend me something for this robot to wear?” An audible sigh sounded around the open door frame as she rushed back to its edge, peeking back in.  
“I’ll see what I can do, Vince,” she groaned. “And by the way? Try the broom closet.” She pointed between the thick orange cord and the convenient little janitor’s nook before stepping away again. Cord in hand Vince swung the door open to the musty little closet and spotted, like a sign from God, an unoccupied outlet. He defiantly plugged the cord in before wrestling the robot into her new room and plugged her in, scrunching her in the back and out of the way. His job done, he returned to his desk and began flipping through the dense manual, pages upon pages of Sterling specifications and robotic analytics slowly putting the man to sleep. Snorting awake repeatedly only to be lulled back into unconsciousness, the time flew by as the robot charged silently behind him. Snapping awake one last time, the manual sprawled on his lap, the man crept back to the closet to find the robot still derelict. A passage about an ‘initial charging period’ came to mind as he gently shut the door on the slumbering android, throwing his suit jacket over his shoulder as he left the building for the night, sure he’d be training the robot the next day.


	3. More Than a Robot Woman

Vince was surprised at his own timeliness, being the first in the Vice department as the night shift quietly shuffled home. The early morning sun, at least what little could squeeze around the city’s towering buildings, illuminated the department in spirited beams of light. As he inspected the derelict desks around he noticed the consuming cleanliness of everything, the order where there had been yesterday ruffled files of papers and scribbled-in notebooks everywhere was impeccable. And there, sitting idly at his desk, was the little robot, flipping through her own manual with a mute stare. Vince backpedaled slightly, unsure who had turned the robot on and whether or not she had a hand in tidying the office. Stepping ahead again he introduced himself.  
“Hello there little miss,” he started. “I’m Vincent la Fontaine, but you can call me Vince. You’re my new partner, so welcome to Administrative Vice, BCPD.” The little android tilted her head before giving him a quizzical look, evidently not gathering everything he was saying. Vincent, at a loss for anything more than that, snatched up the manual from her hands and began to flip through it. Landing upon the section labeled ‘Setup’ he began feverishly looking for directions as the robot whirred next to him, motionless save for the rhythmic blinking of her eyes. He finally found the cause of the issue - when fully charged and *unplugged* the robot would automatically wake up but, lacking the proper setup routine, would default to minor cleaning - a holdover from their nandroid cousins. Vincent sighed as he spied the detached cord in the closet behind him, the janitor evidently knocking it loose by mistake or for need of an outlet for his vacuum, unaware of what he’d wake up.   
Vince kept flipping past the little quirks enumerated in the section, finally settling on the proper start-up. Paperclip in hand he popped open the little access port on the back of the robot’s neck as he hard-restarted her. An internal fan wheezed heavily as her head slipped forward sleepily before jolting back up, her entire body sitting at attention as she started back up.  
“Sterling SALLE-V android, model 79, begin calibration sequence,” Vincent read from the manual. With a shiver the robot began reading off its specifications at lightning speed, pausing momentarily for each little piece of input from Vincent’s end as he followed the manual to the letter.  
“Officer, Detective or Law Enforcement Professional: Please provide photographic ID and name before continuing.”  
“La Fontaine, Vincent Pierre.” Vincent then showed his badge to the robot, her eyes focusing in and out before she nodded happily. She then stretched and flexed every joint in the seat before jumping up, full of energy. She took his hand and shook it furiously as she showered him with joyous praise, evidently excited to begin her work and unaware of her less than flattering state. Her revelry was interrupted by a cough at the door as Cherry walked by and, in one fluid motion, catapulted a wad of clothing onto Vince’s head, disappearing by the time he pulled them off of his head. Sorting through each article he whipped them in the air a few times to squeeze out the handful of wrinkles before handing them to the robot who took them into her arms. The secretary had graced the robot with a full-enough wardrobe, at least by robot standards: a blouse and two-piece pantsuit were more than enough for the robot, the lack of shoes not an issue.  
“What’re my orders Detective la Fontaine?”  
“First and foremost please get dressed,” he said, shielding his eyes. “After that we’re gonna go to the range.”  
“Right away Detective la Fontaine!”  
“Uh, just call me Vincent.”  
“Yes sir, Vincent.”  
“She’s certainly eager,” he thought, watching her shimmy into her new clothes, straightening her collar and cuffs quickly. The ensemble was small on her, but not baggy, the overlong pant legs just barely clearing the floor around the stereotypical Sterling ‘tip-toe’ feet.  
“What next, Vincent?”  
“Well, not much uh…” He stopped for lack of a name to give her, unsure if her designation was a proper stand in or not.  
“SALLE, sir - Sterling Adjunct to Local-”  
“Right, of course,” he interrupted. “Just Sally for you and just Vincent for me, cool? As far as I’m concerned you’re just as much ‘detective’ as I am.”  
“Understood, Vincent.”  
“Excellent. Now onto business - you’re essentially good to go in everything else. You know how to handle a gun too?”  
“I am intricately familiar with numerous ideal firearms stances and small-unit tactics, sir!”  
“They have you shoot guns before shipping you?”  
“No!”  
“Then we’ll start there, sound good?”  
“Especially good, sir!” With that the little duo paced away and towards the elevator, Vincent throwing a sidelong wave to Sherry as they waited for the car to arrive.  
“She cleans up pretty well, eh Sher? Didn’t know you’d have anything that’d fit her!”  
“Those are my sister’s, Vince. She expects them back by the end of the week.” Vince cringed as the elevator door shut on the pair, pounding it into his forehead a few times before composing himself again, Sally evidently not taking notice as she continued playing with her jacket buttons. Descending through the half-dozen stories to the basement again, Vincent ushered the little robot out and into the sprawling complex beneath the building. Sally gushed at the size of the city’s primary precinct and the sprawl of facilities for police training, ignoring the purely concrete construction, poor ventilation and stifling heat.   
Finally arriving in the precinct armory Vincent ushered the robot in and introduced her to the rangemaster. The friendly gentleman was spooked with the force that Sally shook his hand, rocking his arm violently up and down as she gushed in excitement. She eagerly tagged behind the older man as he carefully described what her ‘options’ were, eyeing Vincent for backup as she began listing statistics rapid-fire at the man, weighing her options out loud based on recent police tactics, data, and even more data not even privy to certain hardcore FBI analysts. Vincent winced each time she mentioned the ‘seven-yard’ doctrine and Newhall.  
“Sally tone it down a bit, okay,” Vincent chided. “Your sidearm is important, yes, but not *this* important.”  
“Pick something you know someone of your, er, stature can handle,” the man added. “Without being rude, you’re quite-”  
“Small, yes,” Sally huffed. “But with proper recoil control and stance anyone can handle near-any gun.” The man sighed as his brow furrowed, reaching into one of the locked wall safes and thrusting a small revolver into the robot’s hands.  
“Here, you’ll take this and it’ll serve you well. Just hit the range, please. A gun is more than numbers.”  
“Come on Sally, let’s break it in.”  
“O-Okay,” she said. Vincent tugged the little robot behind him to the firing line, a smattering of patrol officers practicing as he donned a pair of earmuffs, waving his hand forward to shoo her ahead. She sheepishly stepped to the line and readied herself, swinging hyperbolically into a weaver stance as she took aim. She squeezed off a shot before pausing, spooked, and then firing again. Working slowly into a rhythm of fire, aim, fire, however, she quickly picked up pace as she fired faster and more confidently. The small sidearm began to find its place in her hand as an extension of it, an instinctive inclination for shooting awakening in her nascent mind. She grinned impishly as she smacked the button to bring her target up, revealing a horrible grouping spread across the silhouette.  
“O-Oh,” Sally said, cheeks flaring.  
“Oh my,” Vincent muttered, catching himself. “Well Sally, it’s certainly a start! Just leave the shooting to me for now, okay?”  
“Okay.” Sally’s head nodded forward in disappointment. Vincent wrinkled his hand nervously, unsure of how to comfort a robot and loathing to pat her on the back. Mercifully a knock on the observation glass behind the pair stopped him as the two saw a patrol officer tapping the glass noisily, nodding as they both took notice. Outside Vincent removed his earmuffs before shaking his hair to order, the patrol officer waiting impatiently as he crossed his arms.  
“Detective Fontaine?”  
“That’s me, where’s the fire?”  
“We got a call on the westside, corner of 7th Northwest and Palm. Situation’s clear and the Vice Head put it forward for an investigation.”  
“On it, let’s go Sally. Hope you’re ready to work.”


	4. Overdose

“Can you tell us anything more, Officer,” Sally interjected as she was led off. A shake of the head and a shrug were his only answer as Vincent started to trot to his car, pulling his partner along as he sped up.  
“No time to dally, Sally,” he shot, “this’ll be good experience so let’s pick it up!”  
“O-Okay!” Running along the concrete basin to one of the parking levels Vince fumbled in his jacket, hand worming between his badge and sidearm searching for the key to his service car. Finding purchase he held it in his hand as he dragged the robot behind him, rounding the concrete ramp corners deeper into the ground until he came to the dank “D” level where it was parked. Flinging his door open as Sally piled into the passenger seat, the engine roared to life as the car squealed backwards, la Fontaine’s tendency to drive ‘loosely’ becoming clear as Sally pulled her seatbelt tighter. Picking up speed and slowing down in time, he ascended the concrete spiral to street level, pulling out into the street as his hands clenched the wheel.  
“Where’s the scene again Sally?”  
“7th Northwest and Palm, Vincent - Beacon City’s west side.”  
“Perfect,” he thought, Sally already proving herself as the ‘notebook’ Crawley had mentioned to him. As the light ahead turned green he (safely) gunned the engine as he swung a left onto one of the city’s principal avenues, bound northwards for the beachfront apartments that had come to be a thorn in the side of the BCPD in the past years. The development was a hotbed for the stewing counterculture and more than a handful of officers had had to respond to the apartments only to be ambushed. Vincent breathed slowly, consciously as he steadied himself for whatever was coming as Sally hummed, oblivious, with the radio. As Vincent neared the dense brick complex he felt a pit growing in his stomach, the final left turn onto Palm a like a descent into hell as he spied a singular patrol car and a pair of officers securing the apartment door, not that anyone nearby cared enough to ogle.  
Stepping out of the vehicle Vincent approached the officer leaning on the trunk of the patrol car, Sally in tow as he nodded to the officer a floor above them, standing outside of the apartment. Vincent flashed his badge as he spoke with the officer, nodding to Sally to pay attention.  
“Detectives la Fontaine and... Sally, Ad Vice. What’ve you got?”  
“Victim is a young woman by the name of Maria Montemayor. First sweep we couldn’t come up with any ID unfortunately, and the coroner hasn’t arrived yet.”  
“What’s your best guess, officer?”  
“Overdose, easily - victim’s arm was pockmarked in numerous places.”  
“Any witnesses?”  
“Just the one,” he said, nodding to the brick wall behind him. Another young woman was sat against the wall, hugging her knees with her head down. “She’s the one who reported the body, claims to be the deceased’s roommate. Says she came back late this afternoon after spending the day working.”  
“Name?”  
“Eleanor Murphey, few years older than the vic.”  
“Appreciate it officer, we’ll be taking a look around. Come on Sally.” The pair made their way up the stairs and past the second officer to the derelict apartment beyond.  
“You okay to handle this Sally?”  
“Yes, sir!” Vincent recoiled a bit at her less than mournful temperament, earning a raised eyebrow from the cop flanking the flat’s door.  
“Okay then,” Vince returned as they pressed into the home.  
A narrow entrance led into a small apartment of a few rooms, the cluttered living room replete with tossed and wrinkled clothing, the musty smell of unwashed laundry assaulting the human detective’s nose. It was quickly overpowered by the all-too-familiar stench of decay, even its earliest stages enough to repulse neophyte officers and investigators. Vince coughed and cleared his throat before pressing forward to the couch in the stuffy room, passing the adjacent and open kitchen.   
“Alright Sally let’s look around. If we need to handle anything I’m depending on you, okay?” The robot nodded her affirmation as the duo swept the room, passing by the little placards marking possible evidence, all clustered around the derelict cadaver lying motionless past the sofa. The heat in the room was stifling and intense even for the time of year, the ever-present humidity leaking into the un-air conditioned home. Vincent was opposite the body, sniffing in the vicinity of the television and coffee table for any additional paraphernalia that could point in a helpful direction. His sweep yielded nothing but an outdated phone book which he carefully set aside with gloved hands.  
“You find anything Sally,” he said, rising from his crouched position.   
“Nothing yet, sir,” she was knelt beside the body, glassy eyes and an open mouth staring off at some indeterminate position. Sally gently tried to manipulate the rigid cadaver, brow furrowing as she pressed a finger into the livid arms, watching the blanching retreat.  
“What’ve you got?”  
“Judging by the progression of both rigor and livor mortis, the decedent has been dead a number of hours. Looking also at the ambient temperature those processes were likely quickened by a considerable factor. Cause of death is most eminently due to overdose,” she said, pointing to an abandoned spoon and syringe next to the deceased, a trio of placards accompanying them and the released bungee cord. “The body is angled in a way which suggests an upright seating arrangement, which is contrary to the position the body is in now, with the body leaning backwards and the head touching the wall.”  
“You suggesting the body was moved?”  
“Yes Vincent.”  
“Question now is by who, but take that down.”  
“Did you find anything of import Vincent?”  
“Nothing yet, just the phone book,” he said, making his way to the kitchen. He was surprised with how quickly she focused in, the seriousness of tone contrasting starkly with the cheery and overly-energetic robot he’d set up that morning. “I’m gonna check in the kitchen, see if there’s a stash sitting around here somewhere.”  
Sally picked up again and went to the room in the back of the house, a full bedroom across from the squalid bathroom. She popped into the half-open bedroom and began to stoop around for any helpful minutia. A dilapidated dresser with a mirror above faced the mattress laying on the floor that took up much of the room. A breeze rushed into the bedroom from an open window, tattered curtains fluttering in and out as the air heaved and sighed outside. Beyond the window palm trees swayed lazily along the coastal highway. Taking note she turned to the dresser, rifling through the drawers to no avail. Evidently the bedroom was not the nexus of any of the illicit activities in the household. Sally crossed the hall into the poor bathroom, checking around and beneath the sink and in the shower and pulling the lid off the toilet’s tank just in case. Beneath the sink was a worn hardcover book, a high school classic by any means, that Sally pulled out. Flipping through the pages a slip of paper fell out from its place wedged inside:

*Maria,  
Hope you enjoy this book I got you, its story is a lot like us! When you’re done with it maybe we can talk about it too? I’d like to hear all your ideas!  
Love, Daniel*

Sally flipped to the back of the book, the conspicuous stamp in the back giving the address of the book’s library of origin which she took note of before returning it, keeping the note. Making her way back to the kitchen she watched Vincent wave her over frantically, holding a small cardboard box in hand. As the little robot sidled up next to him he presented a small box of factory-made brownies. A local brand, he assured her, but very popular.  
“Now watch this,” he said, removing one of the wrapped pastries. Peeling the plastic off he snapped it in half only to reveal a small plastic baggie of white powder squished inside. “There’s something deeper here Sally.”  
“I would be inclined to agree, sir,” she said. "I've something to show-"  
"Hold that thought, Sally. Check over here." Vincent directed her to the kitchen garbage where he'd been digging. Rested on the counter above was a second syringe and spoon, blackened and scorched on the bottom. A still-wet cotton ball sat glued to the spoon that Sally now spun in her hand, examining each angle for clues."  
"Evidently our POI was having a stick himself. Something tells me he didn't realize the vic was dead until the high wore off, poor dumb bastard."  
"Sir, as I was saying," she said, producing the note. "There was something additional I found in the bathroom. I believe this is an excellent pointer to the individual who repositioned the body."  
“Damn good work, Sal! We’ll interview our witness and get on that right away.”  
“But- but the brownies, sir?”  
“Something tells me that our guy here is the one buying ‘em Sally. Let’s go have a chat with the young Miss outside first.”  
“Understood, sir.” Vincent lit up a cigarette as he whipped his gloves off, the pair making their way back outside to the ground floor to speak with the victim’s roommate.


	5. Questions

Door shut behind them and tape again strung across it the pair returned to the parking lot to question their witness.   
“Let me handle the questioning Sally.” Nodding, she fell in behind Vincent. They approached the disheveled woman who sat against the building’s brick wall, little sobs shaking her body.  
“Miss Murphy, correct?” The woman glanced up at the detective now proffering a hand. Taking it she pulled herself up and leaned against the wall for support. “Cigarette?”  
“P-Please,” she said. She cleared her reddened eyes, wiping her smudged mascara to the side in a greasy swipe as she composed herself. Taking the offered stoke Vincent lit her up, a deep drag later and the woman slackened her shoulders just a bit. “Th-Thanks.”  
“Of course. Detectives la Fontaine and Sally, BCPD. Can you give us a brief summary of what happened, please?” Sally focused her eyes, ready to take notes.  
“Of course, I left for work in the morning and said goodbye to Maria, same as every day. When I returned in the afternoon she was dead, just laying there. That's when I called, pretty much.”  
“And where do you work?”  
“I’m a secretary at Dernier Pharmaceuticals in downtown.”  
“And could you please elaborate on your relation to Ms. Montemayor?”  
“Well I was at work one day, scheduling appointments and handling the phone, same as always. Just a normal day. Then this girl comes in and asks if there’s any work, and I mean *any* work. She wanted to get a position as a janitor, and I figured ‘She’s new in town.’ I pulled some strings and she got her job mopping up and whatnot, and we got to know each other.”  
“And was Maria still employed at the time of her passing?”  
“I- No. She was fired, and quick. A month, two tops. By that point we were already friends though, and she’d moved in the week before she was axed.”  
“Do you remember her saying anything about why she was fired?”  
“No sir, just that she didn’t show up one morning and I found her at home, on the couch. I think it had something to do with her papers being bad, though.”  
“Was Maria skipping work but still clocking in, then?”  
“No, no - her *papers*,” she said, eyes wide. “She never told me but I figured out pretty quick she wasn’t ‘meant’ to be here. Is anyone, though? Anyways, a lot of the neighbors are 'that way', right?. It never bothered me none.”  
“How long ago was this firing then?”  
“About three months? Closer to four now that I think about it,” she said. “Yeah, yeah - It was the Fourth or thereabouts now that I’m thinking. I came home with some sparklers and shit, fun stuff.”  
“Perfect, thank you. Now, does the name ‘Daniel’ mean anything to you?”  
“Daniel, Daniel…,” she paused, racking her brain. She looked down and scraped her shoes on the ground, kicking concrete “Fuck man, I really don’t know.”  
“Well, was there anyone that was close to Maria? Maybe spent time in the apartment?” The girl was loosening and relaxing with each puff as she closed her eyes tightly, thinking.  
“Oh, hell, of course,” she said. “Guy named Ringo would visit a lot, spend a lot of time here with Maria. She was infatuated with him, always hanging on his arm or macking on his neck.”  
“Weird name, Ringo - anything about him stand out?”  
“Well besides the name, which I can excuse living here,” she said, gesturing around the rows of apartments, “he’d always be ‘busy’, always coming and going. Never stayed the night, even when I made it clear I wouldn’t mind, and *especially* when Maria begged him to. Plus he used a lot of big words, not that that’s anything *weird*, but it certainly seemed… how can I put this…”  
“Compensatory?" She laughed, the robot not sure what was humorous in her question.  
“Yeah, a bit like that. I could tell he needed glasses but never wore them, always squinting.”  
“Chief question here is where the drugs came from.”  
“I figured you’d be able to guess, but Ringo brought them in. It was a few weeks after Maria was fired that he started coming around and brought that fucking garbage,” she started, pulling up her sleeves as she continued. “I wanna make it clear I never did none of that, officer. Before he came Maria mentioned a new job and she was making bank, by our standards I mean. We were thinking of moving out but the money up and disappeared save for a fifty here or there, and she started turning into… into a junkie.” She cringed at the word, a slight she’d only level at those who’d *really* earned it.  
“Ringo get high with her at all?”  
“Nope, never. Just put the TV on and put something in her arm, mouth or nose. Dealer’s choice, I guess.”  
“So he was selling her them?”  
“Of course! Where else was our, er, her money going? Certainly not to splitting rent, or food, or anything else!” She puffed angrily, breathing deep as she stilled herself again.  
“Weird one here, but did Maria eat a lot of brownies? Sweets of any kind?”  
“Not really, no, even when he’d bring a box every month or so. She was super defensive of them, though.”   
“He ever mention what he did for a living?”  
“You really need to ask? He didn’t say jack shit about his work other than ‘Here Maria’, or ‘You gotta hold it in, Maria’. Cunt.”  
“Well,” Vincent said, shoving his hands in his coat pockets, “I believe we’ve concluded our business here. BCPD can arrange a temporary accommodation if need be Miss Murphy.  
“Sir,” Sally interjected.  
“I think I’ll be okay detective,” she continued. “I’ve got a cousin here, other side of the city in the suburbs.”  
“Sounds good to me,” Vincent said, shaking her hand. “If you have any, and I mean *any*, items to add or concerns about your own safety, you know who to call.” He smiled at the young woman as he wrote down his department number for her, the girl gingerly accepting it.  
“*Sir*,” Sally said, urgently.  
“Oh! What’s up Sal?”  
“I have some questions for Miss Murphy before we depart.”  
“I uh…” Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean sure Sal, go for it.”  
“Miss Murphy, can you please give us a general physical description of your ‘Ringo’?”  
“Yeah, yeah - uh lemme think,” she said, cigarette shortening. “He’s tall enough, maybe about your height, detective. Skinnier though, real wiry. Patchy beard and a weak moustache, very narrow face, several shades or so tanner than you as well - color of a beach goer.”  
“Excellent, thank you very much. Final question - do you often leave your window open?”  
“FUCK no, that just makes it hotter! At least during the Summer, it’s hot enough when we’ve got the fans going in our airtight hell-chamber of brick,” she said, angrily squashing her butt on the ground. “Window’s shut 24/7. I’d have it welded shut if I could. ” Sally nodded curtly, turning to Vince.  
“Okay sir, *now* I believe our business is concluded. Thank you for your cooperation Miss Murphy.” She nodded quietly as the two detectives stepped away to their car, ready to contemplate and follow-up. Vincent nodded to the other patrol officer as they prepared to leave, a coroner’s van having pulled up during their interview with the victim’s roommate.   
“Took you long enough,” Vincent laughed, leaning out of the driver’s-side window.  
“Screw off Vince, you know how the traffic is,” the bare-headed coroner returned. A burly robot followed behind him, stretcher in hand to move the body. “I won’t hold you!”  
“The officers have everything you need, Mick, just find me in the station if you need anything else.” The two continued their rapport as Vincent dropped the more crucial details, making note of Sally’s observations proudly. Chuckling, he slipped back inside the car and rolled the window up.  
“Vincent? I believe that the most pressing line of investigation we can follow is the factory for those pastries, it seems-”  
“Not so, Sally,” Vincent interrupted. “I’m frankly surprised we’ve just found this out, but this is organizational, not our guy. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that our ‘Daniel’ may have an inkling as to what was going on in our vic’s life.”  
“But sir-”  
“No buts. If there’s someone slipping skag into brownies on an industrial level and quantity they won’t be able to cover this up quickly - our chief concern is with who was in the room with her when she died. Odds are our Ringo or Daniel or whoever the fuck is trying to, or already has, skipped town or found a place to lay low.”  
“Understood, sir...”  
“That’s the spirit! And hey, chin up,” Vincent laughed. “We’re going to the library!”


	6. The Book I Read

A turn of the key and the pair were on their way, just the radio between them as Sally read out directions mentally. Weaving their way back inland from the shore towards the city’s administrative heart, past the mayor’s office and courthouse, they came to the humble library. The little building, more like a small church than anything else, was a relic. Built and rebuilt numerous times since before Beacon City was even a thing, it had served its role well. The glass double doors at the entrance, a far cry from its archaic original, welcomed the pair of detectives into a mute space.  
The air inside was dense but not stifling, more just stale air that the AC struggled to push around in the building. An older woman was leaning over a stack of papers in her lap, crooning silently to some bygone tune as she rifled through them, flourishing her pen before moving onto the next. Sally marched forward with purpose before Vincent held her back, approaching slowly and quietly, leaning over the wooden desk she was stationed at. The pair waited for her to look up from her humming and filing but, as she continued unperturbed, Vincent lightly knocked on the upper tier of the desk. The woman recoiled with a start, gasping lightly - the two recoiled thinking they’d fatally startled her but the woman chuckled as she looked between them.   
“Oh-ho! I love pulling that one on noisy people,” she laughed aloud. She quieted herself, embarrassed, as she continued. “How can I help you two?”  
“Afternoon ma’am, detectives la Fontaine and Sally, BCPD Ad Vice,” he started, flashing his badge. “We’d like to ask you some questions if you could help us.” She perked up, eyes wide: now was the time to be serious.  
“Anything you need detectives,” she said. “What exactly are you looking for?”  
“Sally?”  
“We have belief that a person of interest in our investigation may have checked out a book from this library, goes by the name of Daniel, surname not known. He rented ‘Childhood’s End’. Physical description is about the height of Detective la Fontaine here, narrow and tan. He has weak facial hair as well.”  
“Well my old memory can’t help you with anything like that,” she started. Swinging around and wheeling up to a row of filing cabinets behind her, though, she began tearing through them at a pace impressive even to Sally. Seizing a handful of papers she smacked her hand of cards in front of the detectives. “Here are all the current cards for every checked-out copy of that book, officers.” The two nodded, shuffling through the assorted pieces. Layers of white out and pen were thick on the papers, each new owner’s name scrawled on the cards. Sorting between them, the one lazily flicking past each one while the other mechanically sorted and separated them voraciously. Finished she watched her partner slowly slide each one past the next, sifting out the handful that were mildly helpful. With two piles finally together Vince and Sally started sorting through the minute handful of Daniels who’d happened to rent the same book in the same span of time.  
“Miss, do you happen to have registration information for these three?”  
“Registration? Renting a book ain’t like owning a car, son.”  
“I- Thank you. Anything, like an address or what have you.”  
“Yes, if they hold a library card we have that on file - if they don’t, you bet your behind they’re getting a letter from us about that overdue book!”  
“So you do have addresses, then?”  
“Yes, detective.”  
“Thank you,” he stopped, sighing. “That was what I was asking.”  
“Sir,” Sally interrupted.  
“Go- Yes?”  
“May I please have the cards?”  
“Sure, here.” As the two conversed blankly, Vincent driving towards some unknown investigative destination, Sally stepped backwards and removed the note she’d kept from the original scene. Glancing between each, scrutinizing them to her utmost. The other two were growing louder, heated now over Vincent’s perceived inefficiency in the system and the woman’s stalwart defense of it. Sally shook her head and continued, poring over each aged piece of cardstock, easily decades old. The fevered discussion, if it could be called that as the passive aggressive strayed into less-than-friendly, was interrupted by a little yelp from the robot as she kept looking between the note and the last piece of card.  
“What is it Sal?”  
“Well, Vincent, I’ve been looking over the handwriting on these and the note and I think I’ve identified a match.”  
“What are the fuggen odds,” he muttered, pacing over. “You sure about this?”  
“To a tolerance of ninety-five percent, yes. It’s what I was made for after all.”  
“I’m going to assume, safely I feel, that that luck won’t hold out.”  
“Understandable, Vincent.”  
“Are you two done yet,” the lady asked, eyeing Vincent. “I hope you’ve gotten what you need, detectives.”  
“We have, thank you. Come on Sally.” Sally nodded politely to the older woman as she returned the cards, the address she provided in turn safely stowed away on both paper and the whirring drives inside her.  
“Vincent, maybe, er- Perhaps it would be best if speaking with certain individuals was left to me?” Vincent either didn’t hear her or didn’t *want* to, twisting the key in the ignition sharply before peeling away. “Vincent?”  
“What’s the address you have Sal?” Reading it off Vincent sped away to the city’s southwest, away from the blight and sprawl of the city to the relatively calm (and safe) suburbs. It wouldn’t be the first time the Vice desk had brought him out there and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The suburbs were like so many layers of rubber, pushing harder and harder back upon any intrusion into their world until one penetrated into the heart of removal from the city, Hawthorne Grove. He’d had little experience inside the damned place but he knew by word of mouth just how ‘to themselves’ they wanted to keep. Mercifully, though, the address was nowhere near such a place and lay on the edge of the city, where most home-‘owners’ were renting.  
Pulling up the detectives had arrived, the beaten road was flanked on either side by rows of mediocre homes built during the boom after the war, and abandoned in the decades following to city dwellers unable to afford them and landowners unwilling to sell them - the flight from Beacon City was no different than anywhere else in the country and it showed. Homes were overgrown or just abandoned, windows broken and set with either cardboard or, for the wealthy, plywood. As the two approached their destination it was a surprise as to the immaculate state of the building, all things considered: unbroken windows, a groomed (if partially dead) lawn, nor any piles of conspicuous plastic furniture.  
Vincent stepped up the concrete stairs and gave a rapturous knock on the door, stepping back to wait next to Sally. A flutter of curtains in the corner of his eye failed to alert him, a pair of eyes or more now settling upon him as locks were silently undone and the front door was opened to them, the door chain allowing just a crack.  
“H-Hello,” a voice squeaked out from the inside. “How c-can I help you?”  
“Hello sir,” Vincent started. “We’re detectives la Fontaine and Sally, BCPD. We’d like to know if one Daniel Ruisenhaus resides here, he may have some information regarding an open investigation.”  
“O-Oh you meean Dan-nny? He’s uh, he’s, he’s… He’s off at wor-work right now, yep, ca-can we call you back officerrrs?”  
“Vincent, I believe this individual may be under the influence,” Sally whispered.  
“Yeah, definitely,” he returned. Shouting to the little crack in the door he continued. “Well friend if possible can we ask you some questions about your… roommate, would he be?”  
“Oh! Well, I, you see,” the voice began to stutter and spit, choking out syllables in an attempt to cover. “Excuse me for a minute.” The door slammed shut, the click of the bolts falling back into place louder and more pronounced now.  
“Fuckin-a, a runner,” Vincent spat. “Sally, pull the car around the back of the house, keep an eye on the windows.” In an instant Sally leapt for the driver’s seat and started the engine, swinging around to the next street over and watching the house vigilantly. Vincent approached the walls of the home, hand nestled in his jacket pocket as he began to pace the perimeter, keeping wary of windows and ducking beneath any calculated blind spot. He’d spent too long getting here to be careless now, he knew. Gun now at the ready he crept to the building’s rear, hopping the fence into a cloistered backyard, the screen door derelict and locked. He leaned against the home’s paneled sides, waiting for the next move, glancing over at Sally in the car between the neighbors’ homes. Like a bat out of hell a half-nude blur dived through the door screen and rolled into the backyard, picking up into a gallop as he launched himself forward with his arms.  
Rolling on the grass he vaulted the assorted lawn furniture and catapulted himself up and over the fence in the yard and into that of his neighbor. Sally evidently took chase as he peeled up the street, the squeal of rubber on pavement ringing in Vince’s ears as he sprinted after the shirtless man, yelling at him to stop all the way. Running alongside the car Vince hopped on and slipped himself into the passenger’s seat through the window as Sally gunned the engine forward, the gap between them rapidly closing. And then, still chasing the man all the way to the canals, the man disappeared down a storm drain in one fluid motion, not even a chance to give fire or call for backup. Sally swerved the car into position right next to the drain as Vincent, ran back out, swinging his head left and right for other witnesses, accomplices, any one who was in the radius of the man’s acrobatic escape. Vincent sighed deeply.  
“Sir,” Sally began, removing the suit coat and rolling her sleeves up. “You think you can fit?”  
“I- I’m not sure.”  
“Well I know I can, call it in. I’ll give chase and apprehend the individual.” Vincent groaned, aching over whether to send brand new and fragile equipment into the sewers, or let an active escapee now have free reign over the sewers of Beacon City. Sighing again, he relinquished, dropping a chunky walkie talkie into Sally’s slender hands.   
“Not much else we can do,” he said. “See you on the other side.”


	7. Strange Pursuits

The detectives waited outside and prepared as they waited on backup, each moment weighing on their shoulders as their suspect likely escaped deeper underground. Sally was anxious to get underground and was about to launch herself after the escapee as the cry of sirens in the distance grew louder. Finally, after too long Sally felt, their backup was there - if only to secure the perimeter of the storm drain she was about to slip into. Stepping away from the car again Vincent rubbed the back of his neck before nodding to Sally.  
“Crawley is… less than pleased with this,” he said. “But if it’s the only way, it’s the only way. Are you sure about this?” She nodded.  
“We have a job to do,” she said, chipper again. “Please apologize to Missus Sherry for what’s about to happen to her clothes.”   
“Oh lord,” Vincent groaned as Sally’s smile widened again. Nodding to the officers gathered around, she began to worm herself through the gap in the storm drain and, with a wave, disappeared. Slipping down the short drop towards the main pipeline she splashed into the half foot or so of water sitting stagnant inside. Radio crackling to life she heard the broken calls to her from the surface, concrete sheathing and asphalt above her already interrupting the signal. Reaching the radio towards the dimming sunlight the signal cleared up and she was able to break through.  
“Everything’s alright so far, interference is as bad as expected. Do you have a map with you?”  
“Yes, Officer Danvers here has it spread out,” crackled the radio. “Anything obvious down there so far?” Sally looked around as her eyes adjusted to the dark, feet sunk a half-foot deep in water replete with dead leaves and bits of litter washed away. Instinctive disgust made her roll her pant legs up as she continued looking around. Fixating on the impression of the water line on the concrete tube around her she noticed the darkened splattering of water disturbed, the splashing creating a clear path forward in the relative dark. Eyes now aglow she radioed back her finding before following the path before her.  
Pushing forward along the piping from drain to drain, radioing in her whereabouts at each, Sally marched through the water by the yard, the little ripples from each step forward rocking forward. After a quarter mile slogging along her radio sprung to life once again as she neared another drain. An officer on the other end alerted her of the conjunction of the drain pipe with the municipal sewers ahead and, as expected, just ahead of her the concrete pipe split into an incline towards the sewer beyond. The dark tunnel ahead of her was flanked on either side by a little elevated walkway. Before sliding down the ramp she spotted a flash of graffiti that stood out amongst the other scattered slurs and jabs painted along the walls.  
“Officers I may have something to add here,” she called out. “Can you get Vince on the line?” A little bit of scrambling on the other end and Vincent was back, leaving his canvassing of the neighbors to the officers for the time being.   
“What’s up Sal?”  
“There’s a bit of graffiti here,” she said, eyeing the crude symbol. “It appears to be a series of three arches… and a… lightning bolt? Arrow? It runs through the arcs.” Vincent was paused on the other end, the muffled discussion of the officers above ground spilling into the tunnel.  
“Is that where your trail ends Sally?” Pulling the radio away for a second she scanned around the walls again only to notice the trail of splashes she’d been religiously following disappeared at the intersection.  
“You’re right on that Vincent,” she said. “I believe that down this way may be our suspect.” Across the line, on the surface, Vincent was agonizing over what to do; nightfall was quickly approaching, and if the signs were right it’d be suicide to send Sally in alone. At the same time were they to pull back it’d spell the end of the operation and the loss of the only tangible suspect they’d found. The mute chatter coming from the radio told Sally of the debate going on topside, whether or not it was advisable or even safe to proceed. She nervously fidgeted with the radio to get a clearer sound for what was being discussed.  
“Weathermen been… three years… coincidental, I think,” one of the officers piped up. A voice distinctly Vincent’s, and clearly stressed beyond belief, scolded the man for his naivety. Saly recoiled at the anger in his voice as it squeezed and broke through the line, making it clear to the officers present he wouldn’t take the risk. The discussion waned again, the only sound returning being the mute buzz of radio feedback. After a few moments silence the radio clicked again, Sally rushing to the drain entrance.  
“Sally, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Vincent started. “I got the go ahead to send two officers down by way of the manhole near you to join you in looking for our guy. Wait where you are until you hear that manhole open, okay?” He explained further how far from the entrance she was, that it was just a handful of meters from the drain she was currently at, positioned square in the street it flanked. Sally radioed back, understanding the plan and running through it in her mind. Vincent carefully explained the layout of the sewer surrounding their entry point, pointing out positions of potential ambush, treating the tunnels more like an urban combat zone than anything ‘low’ enough for the police. Sternly, almost paternally, he told her to stay behind the officers, keep to cover, watch each other’s back and most of all keep moving. There was no note of humour in his voice anymore as the radio faded into silence with a solemn farewell on his end.   
A few moments more and the grinding of steel on concrete alerted Sally, jogging to the edge of the sewer tunnel as a bright shaft of light pierced into the darkness, illuminating the ladder. Muttered words echoed from above, barely audible.   
“Still don’t get why we’re doing this for a feckin’ droid, Clem,” one of them muttered. The butt of his shotgun rattled along the ladder as he stepped down.   
“Cool it Sean,” the other piped up as he pulled the manhole back into place. “We’re here to do a job, detective’s orders.”  
“Doesn’t mean I gotta put my life on the line in a goddamn weatherden for a robot.” The other sighed as they dropped onto the grating beneath the ladder, the one jumping in surprise at the robot waiting for them.   
Sally, apparently oblivious to their discussion, gleefully urged them onwards, the one shouldering his long gun as they took point. The other officer drew his sidearm and swept the circumference of the tunnel intersection flashlight in hand, dark corners scarcely illuminated down the length of the concrete structure. The trio moved to hug the wall, walking single file along the concrete pathways flanking the stream of putrid sewage a foot below. The two officers took point as they pushed onward into the darkness, Sally pointing out near-invisible markings along the decrepit walls. Crooked arrows spilt on the walls in red paint etched out directions in the labyrinthine tunnels, Sally resting her hand closer to her own sidearm as they delved deeper into the darkness, into ‘enemy territory’ as Vincent put it.  
A skittering in the darkness, rubber soles skidding along the concrete walkways, resounded into the intersection as the trio turned a corner towards a large sheet metal barricade. The shuffle of a nylon jacket and flapping of a raincoat rang ahead as they approached it, the wooden frame and corrugated sheets of tin roofing creaking. The party formed a circle as voices in the dark whispered around them, beams of light swiping in the black for any trace of activity, finding no purchase save for the sickly greens and dismal greys around them. Hugging the wall besides the barricade they dived for cover as a shot rang out, a paff of concrete erupting from the wall beside them.


	8. Devils Den

The trio of officers dove for cover in a side tunnel as the chatter of gunfire grew and crescendoed, chips and puffs of concrete pelting them in the face as they hunkered down. Sean, the lead officer, peered around the corner as the gunfire picked up again and chased him back.  
“Bastards have a bead on us,” he said, squirming away from the edge. “We’re stuck here until either they run out of bullets, which I doubt will happen way they’re shooting, they charge us, or we charge them. Take your pick, *detective*.” Sally began to pant, the growing lump of indecision in her chest and the silence following each hellish blast shaking her. She’d been given a gun *today*, for goodness’ sake, and was now about to use it in anger. Coiling into a ball she ached for something to do, the two officers looking at her expectantly for instruction as she racked her brain in thought. The smart thing to do would be to hold up and call for backup but, clicking the radio repeatedly, she found that to be an impossibility. Were she to get back to the open manhole entrance, though, there was a chance. And a chance was all that was needed.  
“Sean, I need you to run across to the far wall, adjacent to the opposite tunnel entrance. I’ll cover you from there, okay?” Tactical subroutines raced through her mind as she dashed to a peeping position before pouring fire into the opposite tunnel entrance, fragments of brick and mortar flying into the air as the metallic whip crack of ricochets echoed in the tunnels. Breathing deep the officer charged across the open ground, a hail of gunfire following him to the opposite wall.  
“FUCK,” he screamed tumbling forward, his body thudding against the wall.  
“Sean!”  
“I’m hit man,” he panted. “Fuck me, this is bad…” The young officer started, ready to jump across the void to his wounded partner, but Sally stopped him with her arm. Handing him the radio she nodded towards the manhole cover, swapping her sidearm for his shotgun. Breathing deeply she flung herself into that same darkness and rolled against the far wall, another flurry of bullets cascading after her. Two rounds lodged into her torso as another tore across her chest, puffs of aramid fiber drifting in the air as she hugged the wall. Clem scurried towards the manhole cover as Sally put a trio of disciplined blasts down the gaping tunnel to her left, a pair of yelps and groans sounding out as the guns went quiet.  
“Officer are you alright?”  
“The hell you think you damn thing,” he sputtered. Clutching his side he shimmied up the wall, a growing pool of crimson gathering beneath him. “I’m screwed, don’t have long before I… conk out… Make sure you clear out that tunnel - Clem’ll handle the radio…” His breath shallowing the officer slid his service pistol to the robot before slumping backwards, pausing to take each ragged breath at a time. Slipping the bloody revolver in her jacket pocket, she crept to the corner of the tunnel. Better instinct told her to wait for the second officer to return with help to clear the passage, but the mewling moans from the blackness beyond told her it was now or never.  
“BEACON CITY PD,” she boomed, authority and synthetic adrenalin foisting her voice outwards. “Surrender now, you are outgunned!”  
“Fuck off pig!” A burst of rounds plinked off the corner as Sally ducked away again - there was only one voice, one *gun* more importantly, now. Peering down the tunnel she saw the other officer weaseling his way up the side tunnel, radio in hand. His voice echoed towards her, the stilted recital of memorized code numbers assuring her. Setting the shotgun against the wall, confident that backup was on the way, she slipped out of her suit jacket and shirt, tearing the button-up apart.  
“You’re going to be alright,” she stammered, hands slickening with blood as she began to dress the wound, hands squeezing and pressing as her patient gritted his teeth. Sterling nandroids were first-aid trained and it was showing, the robot pressing her knee into the man’s side as little rivulets of red cascaded into the fetid water beneath. The wail of sirens above and clattering of boots didn’t calm her any as she heard a soft footfall behind her.  
“Told you to leave, pig,” a voice slurred. Sally half turned to the savaged figure, before her, clothes dirty, bloodied. He twisted his handgun from her to her ward, Sally processing the shift as she dived forward to cover the officer. A shot rang out, thundering into her back as she covered the man. “Fucking robot.”  
Laughing, the man kicked the overturned android off of the officer and onto her back. Her power failing, she caught a glimpse of the spectacled figure, his narrow frame poking out of torn clothing and ripped jeans. His sun-kissed complexion was clouded in the dark, stooping over the robot to pat her down. A torrent of light slung down the tunnels, a half-dozen beams scattering along the walls and into the face of the man, his hands freezing in the copdroid’s pocket, her eyes fluttering in the light.  
“BCPD,” a mustachioed voice shouted. “Drop the weapon!”  
“Oh, fuck off,” he returned, words gluing together. “Thisisit, huh?” Bringing his gun to bear at the officers a hail of fire flew down the tunnel, zipping over the heads of the downed officers. Choking back a gurgle he collapsed backwards, the officers advancing quickly to retrieve him. Sally’s eyes darted around, slowing as her energy drained further. Staring at the stone ceiling of the tunnel, boots tramping past her and into the den beyond, Vincent locked eyes with her as he lifted her onto his shoulders. He was shouting commands, the vocal vibrations thrumming into her body in the absence of sound. Another officer was carrying the desperately wounded cop behind them as Sally drifted away. The tunnel was growing silent, darker too, muted of noise and light as she shut her eyes, their lights fading.


	9. Repairs

“Crooks did a number on her, that’s for sure,” the man said. “I count four shots, one penetrating.”  
“What’s the damage?”  
“Nothing intensive or permanent, though this is a learning experience for us.”  
“How so?” The man patted the robot on the back, smiling.  
“Now we know what to improve on for the future, prevent this from happening. Sterling products are continuously developed, researched, improved. Evidently a chestplate is good,” he said, plucking a mushroomed bullet from its nest in her front, “but a backplate was overlooked. We assumed cops don’t do much work facing *away* from gunfire.”  
“You flatter us,” Vincent chuckled. “So- what’s in need of replacing?”  
“Well, the chestplate for one, and whatever’s broken. Nothing major, hopefully.”  
“You mentioned a backplate?”  
“We’d have to make one, but yeah. We can have it delivered pretty quick, tomorrow morning most likely.” Popping the plate off of her back the man set to work, plucking out the dense black square from her torso. Vincent winced, the delicate machinery within narrowly missed by the shot she’d taken.  
“Here’s your culprit.” He picked a silvery, jacketed round from the box as he disconnected it. “I’ve got spares of most of this stuff on me, thankfully. She’ll need a night to charge though.”  
Slipping a replacement for the box inside he screwed the backplate into place again, a fractured little hole betraying where she’d been hit. Flipping her over he did the same for her front, holding onto the old chestplate for analysis purposes. Rapping his knuckles on her chest he closed her up, satisfied with his work. Stepping out he shook Vincent’s hand, Sterling-blue jumpsuit disappearing into the police garage beyond. Vincent sat aside the makeshift bed for the robot, plugging her in as he sat and waited, slipping her back into her t-shirt to let her rest. A knock on the door whipped Vincent’s head around as the Commissioner stepped in.  
“Crawley,” Vincent nodded.  
“Hey Vince, how’s our robot doing?”  
“Fine enough, I guess. Needs to charge.”  
“I’ll cut to the chase- I’m not too pleased with what went down today, la Fontaine. We’ve got an officer wounded,” he said, nodding to the robot before staring at the ground. “And another dead.”  
“Shit, what?”  
“MacKenna died en route to the hospital. That could’ve been prevented,” he grunted. A gulf of silence filled between them, the whir of the ventilation system sputtering above the two as the detective processed the news, glancing at his sleeping partner.  
“Crowley, I mean-”  
“Why’d you send her in with only two officers!? Why didn’t you call for backup of any kind? Why’d you wait until someone was shot?”  
“Sir, I- It was a matter of timing. It was either let the perp slip away, or at least *try* and nab him. I made my choice.”  
“And that choice got someone killed, police property damaged. And your perp died anyways.”  
“What are you getting at here, we have leads left and right.” The Commissioner sighed, squeezing his eyes before continuing.  
“I’m not here to chew you out for a half hour while the robot charges, but be more careful for God’s sake- be slow, by the book. I’ve let you slip a lot, Vince, but it’s not the time to be playing loose. You’ve gotta look out for that robot now, too.”  
“Understood, sir, anything else?”  
“There is, but you can handle it tomorrow morning. The boys found a lot of paperwork left over in that tunnel. Logistics stuff, networks of friends and targets even. Some codename BS we haven’t been able to sift through, though.”  
“I see…”  
“Oh! And Ms. Palmer would like to know when- rather, *if* she’ll be getting those clothes back.”  
“Oh, Christ,” he groaned. “Tell her to hold off a bit. I’ll pay her back in time. Though Sally’ll need something new, too.” The Commissioner was already halfway out the door when he’d finished, Vincent shouting after him.  
“Not my problem,” Crawley shouted back.  
“Dammit…” Turning back to the robot Vincent sighed, ready for a fuller day tomorrow. Clicking the light to the small room he made way for his car and home, and hopefully a better mood in the morning. There’d be a lot of explaining to do once she was up again.


	10. Heart of Glass

Memories paraded by in turn, a day’s deluge of information marching onwards in the robot’s mind. Being activated, the brassy glint of the detective flashing his badge, getting her own clothes and more. The miserable scene of an overdose, a heartfelt note left wedged in a book, and then a trip to its home in the library. The cinema of her imagination was running wild, now, the quickening of her steps over concrete floors and steel grating pulling her into a dark space. It was black, blacker than black. The stygian void swallowed every trace of light, faceless officers besides her unable to penetrate the fog with their flashlights before they were swallowed too. Then, staccato and telegraphic, flashes burnt their way into her eyes and onto the walls, morse code spelled in the report of gunfire as she huddled for cover. The hammer of lead on concrete was relentless, chips of stone flying around as the wall behind her evaporated into dust. Diving for shelter she caught sight of the assailants, a faceless mass of gaunt figures, faces illumined in the muzzle flashes, a pair of spectacles glinting in time with each pop as they mocked her from their perch.   
Sally slapped her hands in the intermittent darkness for a weapon, hand thrusting inside of her jacket, finding purchase on a metal implement and withdrawing a handgun. Shaking her hand the sticky sidearm clung to her hands, bursts of light reflecting off the slick coating of blood on the gun. Shrieking she tried to throw the gun away but to no avail, the blood gluing it to her hand as the shadows neared her. Shakily pulling it to bear she fired at the encroaching horde, only for the gun to spit jets of crimson in place of bullets. The tunnel was flooding now, foaming torrents of red surging from the floor and the gun alike. Concrete walls now burning with unnatural light, Sally jumping to her feet to escape the coming tide. Fleeing to the light the waves came to her ankles, then her knees, but the light was so close, the roar of sirens ringing the image of safety into her head. Reaching for the lone ladder ahead of her she heard a splashing behind her, the waist-high torrents hiding the last of the men. Now chest high a shot rang out as she scrambled up the ladder, her back rocking with the impact as she clutched to the rusted rungs, the man behind her sinking into the fuming arterial waters beneath her. Hands loosening she nearly fell from the ladder as the manhole cover ground open, sliding over the asphalt above as light poured downwards.  
“SALLY,” a voice boomed.  
“N-NO,” she screamed in return, clinging to the ladder tighter. “I’m not ready!” She could feel herself weakening, slick hydraulic fluid weeping from her back. The voice called to her again, her grip disappearing as the all-consuming red rose beneath her. She stared up into the alien light, hands falling from the corroded rungs as she fell backwards, time splitting and dilating as she descended. A last cry called her name, an arm thrusting down the manhole and grabbing her wrist, hauling her up and into the light.

“Sally, woah-!” The robot shot up and awake, freed from her electric coma. Head twisting around the room she leapt from her little cot before clattering to the floor, scrabbling backwards and into a corner. Programmed instinct pushed her hand to an inner pocket that didn’t exist, hand pointing and fingers primed on an invisible trigger. “Easy Sal! Easy, easy…”  
The man approaching her raised his hands defensively, worry striking plain on his face as he lowered himself to the robot’s side.  
“V-Vincent?”  
“Yeah, Sal, no need to get worked up. You’re all good.” He forced a smile as he pulled the robot up, sitting her down again as she collected herself. “Just keep it cool, deep breaths,” he shushed, not sure if ‘breathing’ would even help. Slowly the robot was still, the first wave of shock passed as her eyes focused on nothing. Staring blankly for a moment she shook her head, turning to ask Vincent a question until a ball of clothes landed in her lap, a jacket flopping onto her face. Her partner chuckled and apologized as she filed through the new garments in her arms.  
“Vincent,” she squeaked, the man watching her intently. “What happened after I… you know…”  
“Hey, hey- don’t worry about that right now,” he laughed again. “What matters is getting into something other than boxers and-” A knock at the door cut him off, rolling his hand silently in the air as he excused himself. Outside the makeshift robot clinic was Crawley again, come to check up on the detectives. A little black and blue ribbon was pinned to his chest, the man shuffling uncomfortably as Vincent closed the door behind himself. The pair stepped away from the little office, the detective nodding through the glass to his partner, pointing firmly at the new clothes.   
“So how’s the robot doing, Vince?”  
“No clue, Crawley. Scared me half to death when she woke up, and if she had a gun I’d be dead.”  
“Shit.”  
“Yeah.”  
“You think she’s in shape to go out tonight?”  
“Hell man, I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can robots have nightmares? Anything like that?”  
“I didn’t read the book, you tell me.”  
“It seems like it, sir. I-I’m worried to say the least. I mean, we’re a day in, two now, and pulling her out would be just as harmful as keeping her in. I…” He groaned and looked into the Commissioner's eyes, aching for his partner to slap him with some semblance of sensibility. “I need advice, man! What should I do?”  
The older man’s eyes narrowed, brows twitching in thought. He flicked his head back to the little office, a flash of the robot through the window sitting idly. Her eyes were locked ahead again, focusing on nowhere and nothing.   
“You told her yet?”  
“No, no. Figured it’d worsen things.”  
“I’ll do it,” he whispered. “Not the first time, and not the last.” Vincent following behind he stepped inside, the robot’s head snapping to the man.   
“Hello, sir.”  
“Hey, Sally right?” She nodded. “I’m Police Commissioner Crawley, we haven’t been properly introduced.”  
“Nice to meet you, sir. Is this about the,” she paused, unable to force the words out. She struggled with them, clinging to their places as she sputtered. “The sh-shoo-sho-shoot- i-incident.”  
“I’m afraid it is, Sally,” the man frowned. He took a deep breath before approaching the robot, resting a hand on her shoulder. His eyes widened at how *cold* she was, her polymer exterior almost icy to the touch. “Do you see this ribbon up here on my chest?”  
She turned to look at the man looming over her, an old, dark face and dense greying curls betrayed by gentle eyes and a wide nose. Pinned to his lapel was a tiny strip of fabric, black and blue. It hung on his coat like a bruise, oozing and menacing. She could feel it throb with pain on her own chest, raising a hand to mimic its spot on herself. She nodded her head lightly, fixated on the little band of color.  
“We wear these… We wear these when we lose an officer. In an accident, the line of duty, whenever. When you go upstairs you’ll see a lot of these ribbons staring back at you, Sally.” The robot started to shake her head, realization setting in as blame, guilt and the rest followed.   
“No, no no no! Wait, I-”  
“Hush. You did everything you could and more. You did what anyone else would have, okay?” He stared into her empty, hysterical eyes, searching for calm. “Okay?”  
“Y-Yes, sir…”  
“Attagirl, now,” he started, removing the little ribbon and extending it to her. “You wear this with pride. You’ve got work to do, still, *so do it*. I believe in you.” He clapped her on the shoulder as he pinned the little fabric to her new lapel, the little brass point running through the brown cloth. Stepping away he nodded to Vincent, switching control over to him as the commissioner excused himself.  
“We gotta head out soon, Sal,” Vincent smiled, though it was weaker now. “So! How’re the clothes?” The robot was quiet, fiddling with the pin on her chest. Head twitching she apologized, routines trying to step around lightly, carefully, while still being polite.   
“They’re lovely, sir! I’m especially fond of the… jacket.” The dense corduroy jacket covered her save for a tasteful yellow undershirt, fluted-ankle jeans exploding out and covering her feet near the ground.  
“Sorry if you didn’t like the other shirt, heh.” Twisting her head around again she spied the ungodly floral shirt sitting crumpled on the counter, wincing as she watched wrinkles forming in real time. In spite of that, she couldn’t bring herself to wear… that.  
“O-Oh, yes! I just think it’s a bit… unprofessional, sir? Garish?”  
“Well you might wanna rethink your fashion sense for tonight,” he laughed. “C’mon, we should be going. I’ll explain in the car.” Scooping up the shirt just in case he and the robot made way for the street level above. Sally felt heavier, sluggish and off-balance even, the gravity of the pin on her chest contorting her lapel into a hellish event horizon. She feared being stretched and pulled into it with each step, the anxiety growing as pairs of human eyes glued on her, their own little black holes evidently under better control. Looking at Vincent, who’d summoned such a pin from nowhere, carrying his head high through the offices spurred her on just a bit. Sitting in the passenger seat a ringing she hadn’t cared to acknowledge subsided as Vincent flicked the radio on, engine purring as they took off.


	11. Fly Robin Fly

“Alright Sal,” Vincent began, radio lowered to a whisper, “lemme catch you up. In that tunnel we found a lot of material, and the Weathermen are organizing again.” The vitriol in his voice spoke of past dealings with them, times spent with his grizzled partner in much the same underbelly as Sally’d emerged from, shot.  
“What of it Vincent?”  
“Alright, there’s a lot to go over, so excuse my ramblings. After you were, er, shot, me and some of the patrol officers cleared that tunnel- place was filled with papers, maps, ledgers and more. They’re organizing on a level I’ve not seen before. Arming, too- they had a supply of milsurp that’d make a fed blush,” he half-chuckled. Adjusting the mirror at a red light, he continued. “I spent the day assessing the damage and everything they had- Ringo, or one Corporal Daniel Larson, is one of four ‘lieutenants’, serving the will of a leader we haven’t been able to track.”  
“A veteran, sir?”  
“Correct, Army. Half of the others in the tunnel were veterans, too,” he spat. There wasn’t just disgust in his voice, but disappointment, anger.  
“Any idea as to who could be this ‘leader’?” He sighed- it was a question that’d been bothering him since the night before.  
“Someone rich, and with heavy sympathy for the underground, for sure. Anti-war, anti-government kind of person. Someone with enough money to stay hidden and *keep* it that way.”  
“Would you care to speculate, sir?”  
“You remember those brownies?” She paused for a moment, memory fogged in post-charge miasma. Finally nodding, he continued. “I think it’s something there. There’s no way a grunt worker could slip heroin in like that and not get found, so that suggests someone in upper management.”  
“It certainly matches the description of ‘rich’, then.”  
“True, true.”  
“I never would have figured *bakers* as communists.”  
“Well, it is peace, land and *bread*, Sal,” he laughed. The little joke served to warm the atmosphere in the car just a bit. “But that’s not all. Back to Ringo.”  
“Larson?”  
“Right, right- Ringo’s a codename, and he’s one of four…” He gestured, hoping she’d connect the dots. Her eyes blank he went ahead. “It’s the Beatles, Sal.”  
“Oh! Oh…”  
“Yeah, real cheesy. Ringo was a fixer, a bookkeeper really. He kept those ledgers together, and our next one’s ‘George’.”  
“What’s his job?”  
“A *promoter*, of all things. What we recovered has him jumping from club to club following, or preceding, shipments. We figure he’s their salesman, and he’ll stick around for quality assurance, too.”  
“Ah, and we’re here to arrest him?”  
“Not exactly- we’re here to dig around, odds are he’s at this club.”  
“Which clu- oh.” Vincent swung his car to the curb, inviting the robot out and down an alleyway. Towering brick walls flanked them as they strolled through the wet streets, Vincent ruffling his suit coat.  
“I’ve had run-ins here before, and I know a guy.”  
“Sir?”  
“No, Vince or Vinny- no sir.”  
“O-Oh, sorry.”  
“We gotta play it cool, okay?”  
“Sure, Vinny,” she chuckled, cracking a smile.  
“Last thing- can you dance?”  
“Si- Vince?”  
“We gotta blend in well enough, right?”  
"Right..." “Right, so you gotta dance *some*- we’re here to make an impression, catch attention,” he started, eyeing the ribbon on her chest. “But not like that.” Removing the little pin he slipped it inside her jacket pocket, eyes locked to say ‘It’s safe’.  
“So how do I, you know…,” she shrugged.  
“You- you just *do*, Sal. Let’s just go in and figure it out from there, ‘kay.”  
“Yes si-oop!”  
Stepping past a burly bouncer who eyed the little robot, they stepped inside a kaleidoscope of smell and sound, the burning stench of tobacco and liquor mixing with other, less savory narcotics. The tight discotheque was thrumming, throbbing with energy, music (among other things) coursing hot through the veins of the people gathered on the lit floor. All around the floor little booths teemed with half-lidded stares and drunken mouths spitting profanity or locking together. The dim disco was only intermittently illuminated by the flash of lights, Sally’s eyes widening in the dark, breath shallowing. Shadowy figures twisted and contorted in the dark, briefly illuminated mid-dive, writhing together in a mass on the floor. Slumped figures were half-lit with each flash, eyes hollow in the half-death of intoxication. Everywhere she looked she heard and saw the rattle of death, smelled the coppery stink that followed it. The disco became a singular heart, thumping four-on-the-floor as valves squeezed the gathered masses together.  
“Sal? Sal! You good,” Vincent shouted, snapping a finger ahead of her. “Shoot, c’mon let’s go sit down, alright.” Pulling the robot by the arm he guided her towards the bar, a hulking figure standing back-turned. Letting her down she gathered her senses again, vision not haunted by the blackened figures on the floor.  
“How can I help yo-,” the tender started, turning around. “Oh! Hey Vinny, how are things on-” Vincent shushed the tall robot, finger blocking his lips as he eyed the floor for their guy.  
“Rico, just get me something to drink,” he started, patting the nandroid’s shoulder as she calmed down. “We need some info.”  
“Sure man, sure. Whatcha need?”  
“How’s the business coming? Any recent *packages*?”  
“I’m not supposed to talk about that shit man,” he whispered. “Especially now, it’s tight.”  
“You owe me Rico, shit’s serious right now.”  
“Fine, fine- what do you need to know?”  
“What was in the package, and who came to deliver?”  
“We got a delivery of biscuits for Lucy, the chef. She’s a real *hero* around here,” the robot winked. “And we got a *meteorologist* visiting, comes in every night to have some of her biscuits.”  
“He here now?”  
“Yeah, yeah- but he doesn’t talk to anyone. You’d have to get his attention. Look Vinny, I’m an ohm,” he muttered. “They don’t tell me shit, all I can say is what I see. It’s dangerous enough for them to employ me here, why double down and tell me about what other crimes they commit!”  
“Easy man, that’s enough.” Vincent slammed his drink back, a cheer erupting from the dance floor. Turning his head he watched a shaggy haired man, no older than thirty, ripping across the vacated floor. The congregation surrounded the man, clapping and cheering as he set the glowing ground on fire where he stepped. Each bounce, roll, and egg beat threw a cry up from the crowd. His hair was dishevelled, forehead running wet as he kept moving. Vincent raised an eyebrow at the bartender; he nodded. Vincent eyed his still partner, trying to slow her breathing as he watched her, and then the bartender. “Keep an eye on her, alright?”  
Shedding his suit jacket for the loose shirt beneath Vincent strode over to the side of the ring forming, wincing as the man on the floor slipped a little white pill into his mouth, smirking as he returned to his revelry. Shirt stained wet he was slowing down, vulnerable even. Now was the time. Pushing past the gathered people, sequins glinting Vincent strode out onto the floor, arms open to the man opposite him. The man heaved, smiling wide as his slack body rocked to and fro, steadying itself. He stroked his moustache, sizing up Vincent across the floor.  
“You! You, man,” he laughed, panting. “Get over here…” He marched over to Vincent, pupils wide as saucers, hugging the man. “All I’ve ever wanted was a dance partner, man!”  
“O-Oh, sure! Yeah, sure,” Vincent joined in, head bobbing to the music. The jockey was turning the vinyl over, calling out to the mass on the floor to get ready for a B-side boogie. The two stepped in time, the next song ramping up as the drumline meted out their moves, the two moving in a unison unfathomable, hip-rock matching hip-rock. As Vincent shot his arm out, pointing, he scanned the faces in the crowd, a smattering of robots appearing amid the faces. A pale little disc smiled back at him, short dark hair gently rocking in time with the beat, her jacket slung over her arm and lights dancing on a sunny yellow shirt. Sally felt the urge to join in, but her cheeks flared for fear of embarrassing Vincent. She opted to copy his moves from the sidelines, the detective smiling at her as she cocked her hips nervously, arms miming their movements.  
The roar of horns and strings followed the dancers as they dropped to the floor, jumping up and kicking in a mock of old folk styles, mixing with the twirling arms and thrusts of the day. Bumping hips in a display that could make Bacchus blush, the music quieted in his mind, the only thing mattering was owning the floor, and getting this man off of it. Rocking his body, grooving as no man had ever grooved before, he felt at one with the thrum of the music around him, the splash of liquor giving the right touch of alcoholic lubrication to his motions. Glints of light popped out at him from the robots, and some of the humans, too- necklaces, earrings, rings on hands thrown in the air or clapping. Each little bit was dazzled with an omega, the letter hanging like a crucifix on the chest of several robots and people.  
And then the song ended. Gasping for breath Vincent turned to his partner on the floor, doubled over trying to catch his breath, smiling. Picking him up over his shoulder he escorted the man, devilishly hot to the touch, to a booth to cool off. The floor was repopulated in his absence, the music still pumping and grinding behind them. Sally sat opposite the man, his acrid sweat dripping onto the wooden table between them, the nandroid not sure whether to wince in disgust or clean it up; she opted to gently fan him with her hand.  
“Alright I’m back,” Vincent shot, sliding in besides Sally. Plonking down an ice cold glass of water in front of the man the two watched him slackly raise his head up, giggling as he stared up. He downed the water in a flash, rocking back again. His fingers ran up and across his face, caressing his skin gently as he panted in ecstasy. Sally shifted uncomfortably in her spot.  
“Vince?”  
“Yeah, uh- give him a moment. It’s hitting,” he whispered. Hands now down to his shoulders the man slinked out of his jacket, the pastel blue slipping onto the leather beneath. Eyes widening, he fumbled in his pocket, for a minute giggling as he pulled out a cigar, no-  
“Vince, that’s possession, we could nab him here,” she whispered back. He shook his head, letting their patient strike up. He fumbled again in the pocket for a tiny steel zippo lighter, Vince watching his hands carefully. The silvery box slipped in his fingers as he struck it, the flame catching on the metal. A flash of an eagle’s head roared out at Vincent. At once he looked at the man across him, a flash of remorse, understanding and a hint of comradery in his mind as the man opposite reclined, puffing away.  
“So… What do you folks want with me,” he giggled.  
“We just wanna talk, get to know you.”  
“Know me!” He laughed, murmuring in pleasure between gasps. He twisted and writhed in his seat. “Know me! I’m a disco dancer, groove-embodied! That’s all you neeeed…”  
“Your moves were impressive, sir,” Sally started, the man snorting.  
“Cut the ‘sir’ shit, sister. I’m not a GOD, per say, just a… a *demi*god… yeah, on the dance floor, yeahahaha.” Sally turned to Vince, wisps of pot smoke curling between them. He grumbled incoherently about his parents, instructors and comrades. “You ohms are so uptiiiight, man.”  
“Well, then,” Sally harrumphed. “Let’s at least introduce ourselves, yes?”  
“Sally cool it,” Vince murmured, nudging her. “What my lady-friend is getting at is an introduction. We’ve heard a lot about you and wanna get in, right?”  
“In on what? In on this,” he started, pulling a pill bottle from his jacket and rattling it in front of them. “Shit man all you had to do was ask!”  
“No, thanks- we’re here for business.”  
“Business? Fuck business, they only keep me around to connect shit together. Keep people loose, watch ‘em when they dance and keep ‘em dancing.”  
“Who’s they,” Vincent jutted in. The man sneered, brows furrowing in anger now. He swished his mouth, secrets ready to vomit forth that the last shred of his sobriety was fighting to choke back.  
“This is,” he said, dropping his collar to show that same rainbow. “Joined up after dee-see three, yeah. Promise of change, progress.”  
“And there was none,” Sally pressed.  
“Fuck no! And it’s too late now for me,” he mourned, all-pupil eyes watering just a bit. “It’s not about change, it’s about control now, power. Rich fuckers pouring their money in, buying guns and shit. It’s not like I can leave!” He cackled, mad for a moment before the sadness returned. He wasn’t planning on a candyflipping therapy session, but as his lip trembled the two detectives could tell he needed it.  
“Why can’t you leave?”  
“Cause bitches like John keep us together, ‘plug the leaks’ he says, ‘imagine all the people’ he sings. Motherfucker,” he grumbled.  
“I take it you don’t like ‘John’?” Vincent reclined, letting the robot do her work, pure-blue eyes clear again. She was in her element. “Are there others you like, or don’t?” He sniffed, bleary eyed again.  
“Paul’s the only one nice around there, only one I know at least. But we joined up together,” he coughed. “Ringo’s a bitch, too.” Saying it out loud put a smile on his face.  
“Sounds like there’s three of them, then? There more?”  
“Yeah, yeah- four.”  
“Can I assume you’re number four?”  
“Took you long enough!” His guffaws spat smoke as his joint was whittled to the nub, the man frowning as he smashed it out, knowing it was his last.  
“So you’re all in a crew together? Who do you get your orders from?”  
“John, like I said. He’s the big guy around, always feels the need to swing his dick about, get me?” Sally nodded. “*He’s* the only one in contact with our king, or god, or whoever the fuck. Not like they’re interested in doing anything.”  
“I’m gonna go out on a limb here,” Vincent started. “But you don’t like this stuff anymore, do you?”  
“That’s not going out on a limb, I’m fucking miserable,” he cheered aloud. He doubled over and started to sob, clutching his head. Sally rose up and propped a hand on his back, gently pulling the man in as he bawled out loud.  
“What if we could help take this down, huh?” The man pulled his head up, eyes reddening, staring into the face of the robot. “Would you like that?”  
He wanted to cry again, but a lump of resolve forced it away. He grabbed the shoulders of the robot, the concoction inside him forcing him to dissolve in her arms as he pulled her into a hug.  
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ve been waiting for a push.”  
“W-Wait, just like that?”  
“Just like that.” Vincent stepped over, patting him on the shoulder too. The little display went unnoticed by the broader audience, people too concerned with gyrating on the dancefloor or slipping off to the bathroom to get laid. The man ruffled his hair, sticking a hand out.  
“Harris- no, no, fuck that. My name’s Mitchell Atkinson.” He was sober (or at least completely lucid) again, the clinging stench of marijuana betraying the determination in his eyes, as he thrust a hand out. A handshake later he fell into the detectives’ arms, words slurring again. “I’ll need somewhere to come down,” he laughed, the duo walking him back out into the alleyway.


	12. Rough Diamond

Ferrying their now less-than-conscious ward away and out of the alley, the two detectives now had to figure out where to bring him. He wasn’t under arrest, contrary to his mumblings as they deposited him in the back seat, but that raised the issue of where he could stay the night and sober up. Sally had gleaned that he was likely bumming from place to place, spending his mornings comatose in discotheque booths and stairwells before returning to the dancefloor come night. Twisting the key, Vincent turned to the man who lay in the back, half-awake.   
“Mitch,” he started, rustling him by the shoulder. “Mitch!” The man roused just a little bit, limbs slack as he turned his head over.  
“Whuzzat?”  
“Do you have a place you stay overnight?”  
“Hm?” The man’s brow was furrowing in genuine confusion, the words contorting around his head but not penetrating. Vincent sighed, nodding to Sally as he peeled away.   
“Hey Mitch,” she started. Her light voice made him perk up a bit, finding purchase somewhere. Nandroids and their variants were meant to deal with less-than- or nonverbal children, with one such six-foot child slumped in the back. “You somewhere sleep?” She mimed sleeping with her hands, a half-lidded stare widening just a bit. A connection was made somewhere, transmission scrambled as he tried to connect her words.  
“Yyyyes… yes! Bed here,” he grumbled, trying to contort himself and put his head down. He twisted in the seat, a giggle turning to a cackle at some unknown joke.  
“You have a *home*-bed?” Another verbal poke at the man made him fling up from the seat.  
“Yeah! Yeah, yeah,” he started, something clicking in his head, finally. “It’s, uhm, shit… Damn that’d be nice right now.” Neon lights strobed past his eyes as Vincent drove, some amalgam of restaurants and cafes pulling away the man’s attention. Sally glanced at her partner, smirking slightly.  
“Would coffee be wise,” she whispered.   
“I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “But it would wake him up some at least.” Slipping along the cement curb Vincent parked, tossing his wallet to Sally.   
“Vince?”  
“I gotta stay here and watch him, can you get the coffee?”  
“Y-Yeah…”  
“Great, and uh nab me one too.” Nodding, she popped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. Bleary eyed pedestrians stumbled about, the allure of what lay blocks away in the discos and alleys enough to keep them upright. Some had taken shelter inside the little brick building, silk-shirted men courting a new partner in leather booths with coffee and more between them. A few eyes darted up at the robot, hands stuffed in corduroy pockets as she sidled up to the counter.  
“Hey darling, what can I get yo-oop!” The waitress’ eyes popped a bit at seeing a robot, evidently a rare sight. “Miss, er, are you allowed to be out?”  
“Ma’am?”  
“We run an honest establishment here miss, just trying to keep my nose clean, yes.” Her eyes were narrowing uncomfortably, face flushing as she eyed the robot. Sally fished in the wallet and slapped a handful of bills on the counter.  
“My partner’s outside, I’m just grabbing coffee. Two, please, and I’ll be out of your hair.”  
“Partner,” she snorted, not buying it for a second. “Fine, just be quick about it.” Nails clattering on the countertop she snatched the money and slipped into the kitchen behind her, huffing, as Sally lingered around. An older model jukebot sat, murmuring, in the wall. A drunken parishioner of the establishment sat by it, the two crooning together quietly as he rested his head on the cold glass.   
“Here,” a gruff voice returned. Someone new from the kitchen placed the two cups down in front of Sally. The robot turned to a gentle, older face, smiling warmly as he dropped a slew of coins in her hand. “Have a nice day!”   
“Y-You too,” she squeaked as she slipped away with her coffee. He waved, smiling, little creases working their way up his face. The woman stood, staring, in the kitchen, only relaxing once the robot was out the door.   
“Weird,” Sally thought. The two cups steamed in her hands, puffs of vapor trailing behind her as she slid back in the car, yoinking the odd cup off the car roof and into Vince’s waiting hand.   
“Thanks Sal.”  
“No trouble, sir. Oh- here,” she said, coins jingling in her jacket pocket.  
“Keep it, it’s no biggie.” Sally peeped a bit, refocusing to hand Mitchell his own cup. He grasped it in his hands, vision focusing on the fuming liquid inside.   
“Mmmmmmm,” he groaned. Squeezing it he raised it to his mouth, sniffing and toying with the lid. “Hot, too hot,” he yelped, sipping. He sipped again, repeating the line, and then a second time.  
“Let it cool, Mitch,” Vincent chided. Sitting on the curb, car filling with the pungent aroma of black coffee, they waited on their subject to finish his cup, the foam stressing in his hand as a drop here dripped down his chin. Downing it in an enthusiastic gulp, panting to cool his scorched tongue, he sighed, content. The caffeinated kick-in-the-pants had him shaking his head, awake again, and then some. Taking deep breaths he tried to steady himself, heart thumping in his chest. He unbuttoned his shirt to cool himself off as he stared into the rearview mirror. The pair watched him slow and steady his breathing, the gentle rush of in-out timing out. Vincent cracked a window, a shiver of air slinking inside and around.   
“Okay,” he slurred. “I’m… phew… I’m awake, I’m awake.”  
“Alright Mitch,” Vincent started. “Can you tell us if you’ve got a place to go, to, uh, cool off?”  
“I should, I think. I’m foggy still- wait! I have a number.”  
“Yes?”  
“Yeah , yeah- it’s a number uh,” he paused, thoughts skipping along to recount the number out loud. “That should help. I don’t have the address down.”  
“I assume you haven’t stayed there in a while?”  
“Yes,” he murmured, coy again.   
“Who’s gonna be picking up the phone?”  
“Uhhhh… I don’t know!” Mitchell was picking through the conscious list of numbers he had locked away. He knew that one would be the most help, but couldn’t pick out its owner in the fog still circling his head. All he had was the number, shining clear through the mist. Vincent sighed.  
“Can you watch him, Sal?” The robot nodded. Inside Vince zipped for the payphone, slipping a bill to the waitress, nervous again, for some quarters. The line buzzed, ringing. On the other end a voice picked up.  
“Hello? That you Mitch?” The names lined up at least.  
“No, this is a… friend of Mitch’s.”  
“Shit,” the voice mumbled, anxiety creeping in. “What’s wrong?”  
“Nothing, nothing. He’s in a bad way, and said you had a place to stay for him?”  
“I mean, yeah but- who is this?”  
“We’re not causing any trouble. Mitch is, uh, unable to come here but he tossed out your number. If you could help us out we can get him back to you, okay?”  
“O-Okay…” The man shuffled on the other end, apprehension flooding his voice. Reading out an address he sighed, Vincent already committing it to memory. “Get him here safe, okay?”  
“Of course, sir.” With a click the line disconnected, Vincent rushing back to the car and swinging into the driver’s seat. Cruising away he nodded enthusiastically to Sally, smiling beside him, their passenger jittering in the back.


	13. Hot Water

Their ward soundly ‘asleep’, if it could be called that, the duo made way for the address that had slipped out to Vincent through the handset. The radio was silent, the car drifting noiselessly along the dazzling streets of downtown Beacon City, stretching ribbons of neon rubbing along the car and twisting in its windows as they drove on. Leaving behind the dingy alleys and diner that had bore them Mitchell they etched away and into the city exterior, quietly breaking in and out of traffic. Yellow cabs zipped about in the busier intersections, joined by the last flurry of late workers racing home, or night-shifters slinking out into the dark skies to set to work. Turning into a car park their car arrived at a dense, brick apartment building, a smattering of vehicles lying below its monolithic shape.  
“Alright Sal, let’s do this,” Vince nodded. “Be alert, okay?” The robot nodded, determined- she wouldn’t let someone else get the jump this time.  
“Should I get Mister Atkinson?”  
“He’s who we’re here to, well, deliver,” he started, turning to the bulky man in the back. “Uh… I’ll get him.”  
“Understood.” Hefting the heavy man onto his shoulder, dragging him by the legs, Vince set out for the building with Sally leading the way. The extra hand at the door, and a merciful elevator, was much needed as the snoring body slacked behind the detectives. Ascending the handful of stories to their destination, hands itching at their sides, the two left the elevator. Apartment 613- the home of the voice on the other end of the line. Sally rapped her knuckles on the door, a shuffling inside preceding the drop of a bolt, chain jingling along in time. The door cracked open, a pair of beady eyes peeking out and widening as they landed on Mitchell, the broad man still slumped in the arms of the other detective. A few whispered profanities and the door was swung open, a narrow man, hair neatly combed and greased, ferrying the trio in.  
“So,” he began, pointing to a couch where the man was laid. His eyes were open again, and he groaned and rubbed his head as he twisted on the couch. “How did you all happen on Mitch?”  
“Well we were out at the disco,” Vince started. The man glanced between the tiny robot and the man next to her.  
“Ohhhh, ohoho,” he chuckled. “I gotcha. Mitch has been out and about a lot, you’re not the first, believe me. Can I get you guys anything before you head out?” The man smiled at the pair, a flannel shirt hanging loose around a small chest.  
“Could we talk about your friend Mitch,” Sally started, bold.  
“I- Sure, sure I guess! Come with me.”  
“Mngh… bucket,” the man on the couch groaned.  
“Oh shoot, one moment.” Rushing to an adjacent room he left the two detectives to stare about the living room, taking in every little ounce of detail and information. Eyes landing on the wall, Vincent recoiled instinctively at seeing a red-blue flag hung front and center, a menacing star claiming its center. He’d seen it before, most infuriatingly hoisted by hippies and protestors years ago. Scrubbing it from his attention he eyed the paintings on the wall, all similar and equally elegant, imaginative and, frankly, beautiful. Verdant green scenes were illuminated onto the canvas, paths through dense rainforest to grassy clearings and blue skies beyond. Eagles and all manner of birds soared overhead, tying them together. But Vincent couldn’t help but scan the treelines over and over, gorge rising in his throat as his breathing shallowed subconsciously.  
“Bucket, Mitch!” The man hurried from the side room, slinging the plastic pail alongside the ailing man who, rolling over, unceremoniously puked into the waiting vessel like some Roman patrician. “There you go, get it all out buddy,” he said, rubbing his back. The two shifted uncomfortably.  
“Right… uh, so- how do you know Mitch?”  
“Huh-oh! Well, we’ve been friends a long while, yeah. High school or so.” He turned back to his now spitting and coughing patient. “Say, you know what he took tonight?”  
“Sorry?” The man looked down, ashamed.  
“This isn’t the first time he’s come ‘round like this, I mentioned that earlier. Whenever he gets in a bad way he always finds someone and has them bring him here. He’s like a pigeon,” the man laughed. “But right, yeah- what’d he take tonight? I’ve been trying to keep track, get him on the right path.” He kept rubbing Mitchell’s back, a proffered glass of water downed greedily.  
“Well, I saw him take a lemon when he was dancing, and when he sat down with us he smoke a full joint.”  
“Jesus, Mitch,” the man whispered.  
A little whine from the upholstery responded: “Buzz off,” it said.  
“He was definitely drinking beforehand.”  
“And we got him a coffee,” Sally jumped in. The man laughed again.  
“Mitch hates coffee, save for when he’s stoned. Always has, why I remember he’d-” He stopped, not wanting to bore the couple with his stories. Rising from his place kneeling he was about to ferry them to the door before pausing. “Right- you wanted to talk a bit? About Mitch?”  
“Yes, sir,” Sally started. “He said some troubling things while inebriated, he mentioned all sorts of things.” The man’s eyes widened imperceptibly- it was something no human would notice, not even the eyes’ owner, but Sally caught it, sought to exploit it. He knew something.  
“Well, I don’t know anything about that. Mitch has always been the troublemaker, heh.”  
“He never mentioned your name, sir. You seem close for him to not have-”  
“He’s high, of course he’s not thinking right. I’m surprised he remembered my number.” The man was pacing around the room now, circling slowly around Mitchell. He knew something was up, but he wasn’t about to kick them out, either- then the jig would really be up.  
“Sir? I think it’d be helpful if we talked names,” Sally began. “I’m Sally, and this is Vincent we’re…”  
“Partners, I can tell.”  
“Right, yes! Right… But you?”  
“My name’s not important, no, no.” He circled closer.  
“I think it is, we should be keeping in touch. If you won’t tell us I can give you a name,” the robot giggled, playing with him. “How’s about Paul?”  
The man lunged for Vincent, eyes wide and angry, pupils needle-thin as he pulled a fighting knife from his pants and pressed it to the officer’s throat.  
“THAT’S IT,” he screamed, the blade pressing into the delicate skin. “I want answers, now! I was willing to think you brought him home out of goodwill but now you’re fucking with me!” His wild eyes narrowed onto the robot, her own eyes darting around the room in fear and panic. She saw the room darken around her, walls closing in as it thrummed with the beating of the hearts around her, and the hollow whir of the mechanical one in her chest. There was an itch in her back, the heavy, new plate not fully replacing the ancient feeling of the piece of lead that had lodged there for hours. The itch travelled around her back- unreachable, taunting her. Now it hung inside her jacket pocket, the heavy handgun there ready to burn its way through the coffee-colored corduroy as she locked eyes with the man. The knife pressed deeper.  
Were she to draw it would mean death, instantaneous for him and slow, meandering for Vince. The thought of him laying, helpless, on the floor slowed her hand. The snoring behind her threw her, a glance away and a glance back seeing to the man’s savage grin only growing wider. He was panting, only waiting for the word or sudden movement he was waiting on. Sally drew one hand up and into the air, slowly and ponderously as the other wormed to her outside pocket. Delicate fingers laced onto the leather fold inside, flipping open as her provisional badge unfurled.  
“Detective Sally, BCPD Vice- please, sir, drop the knife.”


	14. Breathe

“The fuck I will!” He tightened his grip on the other officer, whose hands sat raised to his chest. The robot opposite them brandished her badge, the brassy glint doing little to dissuade the hostage taker. She stretched her other hand, fingers ready to fly for her inner coat pocket, motions hard-coded to be instinct. But her hand couldn’t move, she realized- it *wouldn’t*. The hellish eyes staring back at her stayed her hand, even a slight twitch would be Vincent’s death, the man’s knuckles taught against the skin as he squeezed the knife. “I want some answers, *now*,” he yelled.  
“Sir,” she started.  
“Cut the shit,” he snapped. There was little time for introductions. “Make your point.”  
“We’re police officers, as you can tell.” She gestured to the badge with her head, taking care not to jerk around. “We’re investigating a death from the city’s west end. In our investigation we found connections to the Weather Underground, and clearly you’ve found yourself involved with them. Mitchell as well.”  
“That’s got nothing to do with me,” he sneered, eyes darting left. The man on the couch grumbled mid-snore.   
“It has *everything* to do with you. Mitchell’s been a big help to us, and we want you to help us too, okay,” Sally started, trying to calm him down. The man shivered slightly, glancing between the robot and the slumbering man and his pale of throw-up. “We’re trying to do right by this city, and the Weathermen aren’t going to do that. But you knew that right? Mitchell certainly knows it.”  
“You don’t know shit about me,” he muttered, the color returning to his knuckles.  
“I do though, *we* do. You served the country, came home and wanted things to change,” she started, circling closer with her words. The squeeze was on, just as she’d done hours before on Mitchell. “You wanted to make a difference. The Weathermen offered you that, right?”  
He bit his lip, calculating his next move. Human faces had tells like his own, a jump of the eyebrows or crease of the mouth, but he found none in scanning the robot’s face. Her cheeks burnt low, anxious, but that was of no use tactically- anyone would be nervous where she was. Recoiling, nearly losing his composure, he watched a warm smile drift onto the robot’s face. It was something he’d only seen a decade ago in field hospitals and with his buddies, and rarely (if ever) after coming home. It was a scornless look, understanding- she could tell he didn’t want to do this. It was true, he knew it, but he couldn’t face anymore time locked up, controlled- more implement than man.  
“If I help you,” he gulped, “You have to promise to let me go.” Sally knew the law, she knew the rules and what to say- she’d been built with them. None of those rules about promises, however, cared to mention when a knife was at the throat of one’s partner.   
“Maybe put the knife away, and then we can start talking promises, okay? We’re just here to talk.”  
“I’ve been around cops enough to know that’s a resounding ‘no’.”  
“And I’ve been around criminals enough to know you’re not one. You hate this, I can tell,” Vincent choked.  
“And I don’t remember asking.” His grip tightened an inch. “Explain why you’re here and *then* we’ll see what happens.”  
“Early yesterday we were called to a scene,” Sally began, sighing. In the moment the programmed-stoicism had dulled anything but pure forensic logic but now, remembering the dismal apartment, she had to pause. “A young girl died, overdosed. Through our investigations we found she had been getting drugs from one of your compatriots- Ringo.”  
“And?”  
“He’s dead, Paul.” His eyes widened again, briefly. He was halfway between screaming and cheering, but he swallowed it back. That name, that ‘codename’ or whatever it could be called. A moniker, mocking him more than it protected him.   
“Don’t call me that,” he spat. “Shitty fucking nicknames so we can play secret agent man, I swear-”  
“Hey, hey- I understand. Please, we need your help. It’s gone deeper than we ever imagined, and we need answers to finish it.” The same smile was there again, but weaker, tired. He knew he couldn’t keep this up, the subtle bulge inside the brown jacket, the unfortunate realization dawning that, no, he was not faster than a robot. Loosening his grip, knuckles flush and pink again, he inhaled deeply, trying to arrest his heart. Adrenalin-infused machismo fading the shaking that had taken his hands subsided, too.  
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” He gently lowered the knife, his hold on Vincent loosening. His eyes widened, calmer, but alert- he wasn’t about to put the knife away totally, but he would respect the officers enough not to try anything again. Sally wordlessly slipped her badge away, opposite hand finding her gun for security’s sake. Her partner lowered his hands slowly, sidling away as his captor watched him, and Sally him.   
“So,” Vincent started. “Where do we begin?”

Vincent now comfortably free, the trio sat in the tiny kitchen, crowded around a small wooden table. The two detectives squeezed together across from their new interviewee. Still jittery from their less-than-amicable introduction he struggled to light a cigarette. With a deep inhale, taking care not to puff directly in the officer’s faces, he slackened and reclined in his seat. Once a sizable grey-blue smog was birthed and swirling above them, he was ready. Sitting back up he faced Vincent first, then Sally.  
“So- what do you want to know?”  
“Well, first and foremost, a proper introduction would be helpful.”  
“Right, right, sorry,” he apologized, shaking his head. He stuck an anxious hand out before continuing. “Booker.”  
“Booker…,” Sally implied, spinning her hand slowly.  
“Oh! Heh. Booker Williams.” Sally jotted a note in her book. She took his hand confidently, restored just a bit that she’d resolved things peacefully. Vincent responded in turn, a bit more cautious, but the introduction was enough to start with. “So, where should we start?”  
“If it’s no trouble, start at the beginning, before you joined.”  
“Well, it’s the same story you’ve probably figured,” he sighed. His face darkened, unpleasant recollections returning as he traced time backwards across the decade. “I was a draftee like Mitch, served overseas, came home. Shit was bad for us getting back, and we met each other in the 101st.”  
“How long have you known each other?”  
“A while, a *long* while. Technically we’ve been roommates for a few years but,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, “he’s been drifting around a lot more lately.”  
“Yeah,” Vincent chuckled. “I’m glad we found him when we did.” Booker leant his head forward and out the kitchen to the large man prone on the sofa.  
“Right,” he laughed.  
“Actually Mister Williams, could we talk more about Mitchell first?”  
“What about him?”  
“Why has he been out so late- like *that*, rather,” the robot started. “We’re trying to eke out who’s who in the weathermen.”  
“Well if you got him you probably already know, right?”  
“We’d like your *sober* perspective.” The man laughed, swirling the smoggy air with his hand.  
“Yeah, yeah- Mitch has always been out there, I guess. When we joined up after Dewey he stuck out with how… how *genial* he was, how vocal.”  
“They wanted a propagandist?”  
“Not exactly. He was good at talking, but better at partying. It started small, right? He’d be told to hang around a bar, talk people up and get *them* drunk, yeah?” The robot nodded along. “Then he’d talk up some of the organization's points, get people moving and *thinking*.”  
“Around when was this,” Vincent interjected.   
“Not too many years ago. Up until he started drifting into the disco scene.”  
“Yeah, yeah,” the detective continued. “Sal, you weren’t around for it but when I was a patrol officer there were a lot more unions dancing around in the city during those years. Hell, there was usually a new strike every week when it got to fever-pitch.” The man opposite them laughed.  
“Yeah, Mitch got people stirred up- he was like some kind of revolutionary half the time.”  
“He had good slogans, I have to say,” Vincent snickered. “Half the time I found myself agreeing with the bastards even as they pelted us with rocks or whatever the hell else.”  
“Ah, that’s where I come in. Not to *gloat* but I’m the guy. Mitch and I are, or were, I suppose, a package deal. He has the voice, I have the words.”  
“You’re a writer?”  
“More than that, I’m their all-in-one artist,” he said, gesturing to another painting behind them with his cigarette butt. He struck up a second before continuing. “I had a knack for it after coming home, and ‘they’ liked that. I wrote a lot of those slogans, pamphlets and whatever the fuck else they needed from me. It’s pretty cushy if I do say myself, but lately… it’s been lacking.”  
“‘They’ are losing interest?”  
“I mean, when was the last time there was a strike? When did a union last do anything worthwhile? That’s why, the unions aren’t doing anything that *needs* it- they’re more weathermen enforcers than unions now.”  
“Enforcers,” the nandroid questioned.  
“Yeah- most of the drugs in this city touch their hands first, they need people to keep it stable. It’s shitty, and it’s why Mitch and I have been falling out with them.”  
“Mitch told us the same story, how he’s not buying it anymore.”  
“Precisely- this kind of work isn’t what we joined on for, hell no. With all this disco shit,” he spat, “Mitch just slinks off to get high, and I sit here doing nothing really.”  
“And what about the other two, Ringo and John?”  
“You know John?”  
“By association and Mitchell, yes.”  
“Put it simply, they love this shit. I didn’t know him like I do Mitch, wasn’t on a first-name basis or anything. Even less with John, slimy bastard.”  
“Could you elaborate on what they did?”  
“Sure, sure- when it was young, starting up, Ringo moved things, trading around to earn money. John is an enigma to me, I’ve no fucking clue where he came from, when or where he served, or *why* he joined- I should add he was a vet too. My only interaction with him was him giving me a houseplant, only to find it bugged.”   
“Surveillance?”  
“Obviously, but he did a pretty awful fucking job,” he laughed. “I threw it out the window and never saw him again. But the problem is he’ll follow people or have someone else do it, now.”  
“You think we’re being followed now,” Vincent asked.  
“Oh for sure. At this point, had he the power, he’d have us killed. But,” he said, eyeing the knife on the kitchen counter, “he knows better than to try that.”  
“Once we leave, though- what then?”  
“If I try and leave things won’t be pretty for either of us, though it’s the only option that makes sense, that feels right.”  
“And what about the weathermen?”  
“Fuck if I care, John can burn in hell and the guy above him too. I’m through now, you’re talking to a dead man,” he muttered.   
“Do you think you could help us, Booker?”  
“Help how? I’ve already told you most of what I know.”  
“Most- but not all,” Sally pressed. “You mentioned ‘they’ a few times-”  
“‘Who’s *they*?’, you’re gonna ask. Don’t know, won’t know. John’s the only one close enough to them to answer that, and good luck getting him to leave. Now that Ringo’s dead things are gonna start moving faster.”  
“Things?”  
“I was never in deep, being a glorified newsboy, but there were always whispers of a bigger plan. If you killed him, you obviously found a den underground- one of dozens, hundreds probably. Fuckers squatting underground waiting for the order to do *something*.”  
“And you think that order’s coming soon?”  
“Soon? It’s probably in motion, given by some guy on a phone to John.”  
“Jesus,” Vince whispered. “What’s there to do?”  
“Prepare, arm yourselves, get your department moving. Ringo didn’t just smuggle drugs around,” he sneered.   
“What can you tell us about that? How well armed are they?” He stuck his hands up defensively.  
“I’m just a painter, miss. If you had a gunfight with them then you know pretty well what they’re packing.”  
“Right…”  
“Look, at this point there’s only so much more I can tell you. Get a fire under whoever’s ass needs one and have the police ready- but don’t go starting a panic.” Panic. The robot doubled over, slowly, eyes meeting with the glossy table’s veneer. A faint reflection eyed her back, taunting her with the impossibility of stopping what was coming. Talking down one guy with a knife and his drunk body was one thing, but the coming storm was another.   
“Sal?” There was a roiling fear inside her, capturing and clawing as she pushed against it. Her composure collapsed before her, coming to terms with the momentous forces converging around her. Booker and Vince could nonchalantly discuss the specifics of an armed insurrection in the city like old friends, really, specifics traded like baseball cards. But, starting to pant, she couldn’t help but feel those closing, brick-laid walls. She arrested herself upwards, pausing to steady her breath before leaving.  
“Excuse me,” she mumbled.  
“Sal,” the man asked after her. “Sally?”  
“She alright?”  
“Yeah, I mean- I think so,” Vincent sputtered. She slipped out of the kitchen to take a breath, the bushy carpet ruffling with each step. She leaned back and heaved, the whipping thump of a nonexistent heart hammering in her ears as she tried to calm herself down, to settle the nauseating swirling of the world around her. Holding her hands out for support she centered herself in the room; an archaic television, wood-panelled, stared at her, jungly landscapes peered out from the walls and the dull knob throbbed at her as a dimple of light traced along its curvature. The couch lay across from her, the lump there speaking to her as she arrested her head in place.  
“Hey,” it called to her. *He*, she reminded herself. “Hey! You good dude?”  
“Huh? Wh-Sorry, I’m- I’m fine, thank you.” The man propped himself up with his arms, breathing heavily. He sipped at a glass left for him, swirling it in his mouth, letting the cool fluid slip away. Sighing contentedly he waved the robot over, whirling his hand again and again until she obliged by a few inches. Her face tightened, eyebrows wrinkling, as she approached his corner and the foetid bucket that entailed. Nandroids were, ostensibly, meant to be around vomit, but she couldn’t help letting her disgust return as she slid towards the man.  
“You don’t look fine,” he giggled. He filled his lungs again, welcoming a deep, burly heaving of the chest before he reclined again. “I’ve seen that look before, and I know you’re worried.”  
“W-Well, I think anyone would be, now more than ever.”  
“Well why’s that, then?”  
“You didn’t,” she stopped herself- of course he didn’t. Until a few minutes ago or, more likely, *now*, he was unconscious beside his still-stewing bucket. “Mister Williams thinks that the weathermen are going to make a move soon. Maybe even tonight, I wager, with how… organized things are.”  
“And what are you going to do about it?”  
“That’s the problem,” she lamented, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “What the hell *can* I- *we* do? What’s even the point with something like *this*?” She withdrew the sidearm she’d gotten the day before, fired for the first time in anger only hours later. She flipped it side-to-side, measuring its mass by touch and look, nickel-plating beaming in the dim lamplight. Checkered wood furniture rubbed her palm as she worked it around, Mitchell’s pink eyes following it lazily. He laughed.  
“You think that’s something? Man, I’d have a field day telling you the shit I’ve had to deal with with less than *that*,” he chuckled again. “At the end of the day, you’ve gotta fight, right?”  
“R-Right, but-”  
“There’s no buts here, miss- just *do*. You care about this city?”  
“I-” She had to stop again. She’d been in the city, let alone *awake*, for two days or so. Any inkling of programmed response had faded with stressors and intense field experience, but seeing just how grave a danger Beacon City faced stirred her. “I do.”  
“And your partner in there,” he winked, “him? You care about your buddies, right? Your other cop friends?”  
“Of course! Vince has been invaluable on this case, and-”  
“Drop the ‘case’ shtick, think of him as *him*. Would he die for you?”  
“Y-Yes, I think.”  
“Would you die for him?”  
“Yes,” she fronted, confidence edging in. “I would.”  
“Then look to that, little robot. When things get tight and you’re in deep, you’re there for your buddies and no one else,” he breathed. Flaming, reddened eyes danced in the light before her, wisdom slipping from them as she watched him.  
“Thank you, Mitchell.”  
“Hey,” he laughed. “You dropped the ‘Mister’.”  
“Something funny Mitch?”  
“Nah Booker, just talking with this robot here. Dispensing some wisdom.”  
“Wisdom,” he snorted, turning to Sally. “‘If his eyes are pink, he cannot think.’ I’ve got more like that.”  
“Hey…,” the hairy man whined.  
“Yeah, yeah…”  
“Sal,” a fourth popped in. The other detective stood, arms crossed, in the kitchen entrance. “You good?”  
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready to go.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well, if the weathermen are moving, we need to move too. We have to get to the precinct and raise the alarm.”  
“You sure you’re okay Sal?”  
“I was made to do a job, so let’s do it,” she insisted, staring dead into Vincent’s eyes.   
“Oh- Okay, okay.” He was taken aback, his special-issue ‘notebook’ now giving the orders.  
“If you’re going,” the third slurred, “I’m coming. Depending on the time, I’ll be good to go.”  
“Mitchell I’m not sure if that’s wise, or even legal,” Vincent chided.  
“Then deputize me, simple as that.” He clapped his hands past each other for effect.  
“Well, if he’s going, I’m going,” Booker sighed, resigning himself. “We’ve gotta stick together and, hell, this is my chance to get back at ‘em I guess.” Sally stood defiantly, approaching Vincent.   
“It’s up to you, sir. I think,” she took a breath. “I think- I *know* we can do this, but we’ll need a lot of help.” He stood motionless, eyes shut and pensive. His bushy moustache wormed around his lip before he nodded. The be-couched man stirred lightly, flopping forward and up, into the arms of his roommate. The quartet slipped out of the apartment and away into the pitch blackness of Beacon City, hell-bound for the precinct office to start their work.


	15. Early Morning Breeze

The lady sighed, groggy still, as she fetched another coffee from the break room. A fingerful of coins dived into the machine, rewarding her with a steaming cardboard cup. The clock above her edged past midnight, the uniformed figures around her that haunted the graveyard shift with her flitting past as she returned to her desk. Slumping over to her stack of files and papers she got to sorting, nursing herself with a scalding sip every few minutes as her desk clock ticked inexorably onward. The vice detective hadn’t paid her back for the clothes he ruined yet and, with the Winter formal fast approaching, her little sister was jumping down her throat for *something* to wear, lest she die of embarrassment or some other infectious tween affliction. So here she was, working overtime, digging away at her own time. Why, if she could get her hands on that-  
“Yo, Sherry,” he said, slapping his hand on her desk. “You there?” In her cloud of resentment she’d failed to notice the detective, and his ‘partner’, and a pair of homeless men (?) saunter up before her. After a pair of deep breaths she turned, half-smiling to him.  
“Hello Vincent,” she grinned. “What can I do for you this fine night?”  
“I need you to ring up the commissioner, now,” he dropped, deadpan. “Get him here if you can, but have him get every precinct moving, and quick.”  
“Vincent, wh-”  
“Sher, there’s not time to dally, okay?” She rolled her eyes at the shortened name but, seeing those tired, tightening brown eyes staring back at her, she picked up the phone. Dialling the man by memory she left the phone in her off hand to ring, looking up at the detective. He gripped the lip of the desk with his hands, knuckles white and breathing slow, staring off and away into the distance. She’d never seen him like this before, his apprehension stirring the air around her.  
“It’s ringing,” she nodded quietly. She peered at the robot behind him, conversing idly with the two hobos gathered together.   
“Who the hell-”  
“Commissioner? It’s Templeton- Yes, I know it's one in the mo- Okay? Okay. It’s Vincent,” she said, pulling the handset away. “How important?”  
“Very.”  
“Very,” she repeated. “Here.” Vincent took the proffered telephone, cupping it to his head as the coiled cord grew taught.  
“La Fontaine,” he snipped. “Commissioner Craw-”  
“Dammit Vincent,” he yawned. “This better be damn important, I swear-”  
“It is sir, if you can get here that’d be best, but-”  
“But?”  
“Sal and I’ve got a ‘lead’?”  
“Oh? Are you in an interview right now? They ask for a lawyer or anything?”  
“Wha- No, sir, it’s worse than that. Remember how there were *four* of those chiefs, and we killed one? Well, we’ve got two of ‘em right here. They say that the weathermen are gonna be making a move on *something* soon-”  
“And they’re not in cuffs!? God-fuckin-dammit, Vince-”  
“Crawley! Listen to me here, you gotta get the police moving, now! I’m not playing. Get some guns into officers’ hands, spread ‘em out around the city. Activate SWAT, the whole shebang,” he spat. He sighed before continuing. “The mayor’ll need to know too, this could turn into something requiring the guard.”  
“Jesus,” Crawley whispered. “Stay there, I’m on my way.” The line crackled quiet, Vincent gingerly handing the phone back, suspiring slowly.   
“Vince, what’s gonna happen?”  
“I dunno Sher, I really don’t. Can- Can we talk later, please?” He slipped away to the trio before she could answer him, groaning internally.  
“Hey Vince,” the robot perked up. “I’ve been figuring out some of the details with the gentlemen, about ‘John’ mostly.”  
“What’ve you got?”  
“Just a description, but that’ll help a lot so we can find him once things… happen.”  
“Right, right,” he moaned, rubbing his forehead. “Do you… Do you have things under control?” The robot looked down briefly, thinking, before eyeing the detective, worried.  
“I do! Go get some rest,” she smiled. Vincent slipped away to the waiting couch in the break room, holding his head in his hands for a moment, dragging his hands across his face. Laying down he rolled over and conked out, slumber grabbing him in the folds of the department sofa.

“Vince,” a voice clapped. Heavy hands hovered over his head, slapping together. Each boom popped his open a millimeter more before he was staring up at the broad nose and grey, dense curls of the Commissioner. “Ah, you’re finally awake.” A robot sniggered in the background.   
“Yeah, right,” he sniffed, sitting up. Standing to shake the man’s hand Vince saw the robot chatting quietly with the secretary, giggling with her. “How are things sir?”  
“Now’s not the time for pleasantries, Vince. Your rob- er, partner filled me in already with what’s going on. Those two… *gentlemen* were helpful too. Best case we have until nightfall again, worst case a few hours.”  
“Well then, what do you want until then?”  
“You can rest easy for now, but once the alarm goes up you’re on things, okay?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“I’ll have someone wake you up once things start, in the meantime go back to sleep. I’ll handle the logistics, get dispatch cleaned up and things in place, okay?” Vincent reclined again, head resting haphazardly on the sofa’s arm.  
“Okay,” he yawned.

“Vincent!” A voice cried for him. Arms flailing around himself he flung a corduroy jacket onto the floor where a waiting robot scooped it up. “It’s time to go!”  
“Shit, already?” He flipped his arm up, watch reading just past seven. Rays of sunlight pierced and bounced outside of the breakroom. Flinging himself from the couch he wiped down his jacket and straightened his tie. “Let’s go, let’s go!”  
The duo jogged out to the street, accompanied by their new companions, the one sober again and the other in tow behind him. Shining provisional badges clung to their chests, a last-minute deputization foisting them outside with the detectives. The secretary urged them onward, the precinct buzzing with crackling radios and jingling phone lines, hundreds of officers swarming the city as chaos descended.   
The four stepped out onto the frigid streets, the moist, sweet air cloying around them and following in as they piled into the car. The whine of sirens in the distance quieted with the doors shut, only to be replaced by the manic crackling of the radio. Voices in the dozens or more reported from across the city, calls concentrating in the west end. Vincent took a deep breath, engine roaring and warming as the car zipped away, its own siren joining the rising chorus that was awaking Beacon City that morning. The car was silent save for the cries of the radio, the same message from hundreds of officers- shots fired, officers wounded, perpetrators killed in savage exchanges of gunfire. The distant whip crack of gunfire echoed outside, the streets empty save for a handful of panicked pedestrians running into buildings. Cars were abandoned, stray on the streets for Vincent to weave through. Turning west, between the shimmering spires of the downtown offices, were boiling, fuming clouds of smoke in the distance. Vincent gunned the engine, each of his passengers lurching backwards, diving westward towards the flames, towards their conclusion. Sooty air swirled around them, stirred and carried in the early morning breeze.


	16. Hand of Doom

Calls for assistance only intensified as the crew approached the infernal west end. The borough had spelled the end of too many officers already, before any grand machinations by the weathermen were put into effect. And now it was on fire, scattered blazes spreading from building to building as short brick multistories were gutted by flame and opportunists picking them for loot. Crossing into the rotted, potholed avenues a shot, too close to be accidental, rocked the car. The round skidded across the hood, lodging itself just beneath the windshield as Vincent floored it, pushing the car ahead and to the curb.  
“Out, now!” The four piled out and sheltered behind the baking brick wall of an appliances store, smashed glass and muttering display televisions splayed on the ground. Scattered pops from the opposite end of the building paffed on the asphalt in front of them, a warbling siren with them.   
“Out! Hands up,” a voice screamed over the roar. “There’s a curfew in effect, now come out!” Vincent crawled up to the very edge of the brick, a glancing shot across the wall nearly taking his nose off.  
“We’re police goddammit! BCPD Vice,” he screamed. He fumbled for his badge, tossing it into the street as an offering.  
“Come out, S-L-O-W-L-Y!”  
“Let’s go,” he whispered to the line behind him. Gently, carefully, they creeped out into the street. Standing, exposed, in the smokey road they spied a pair of officers huddled behind their squad car, the opposite side and roof riddled with holes.   
“Get here you dumb bastards,” the second officer yelled. Snatching his badge up the squad huddled behind the car, squeezing in behind the engine block where they could.  
“Detective la Fontaine, Vice,” he started. “What’s the situation?”  
“Situation? There’s a war going on here,” he grumbled. “We were put out on patrol here and started taking fire from across this parking lot, what… twenty, thirty minutes ago?” His partner nodded in agreement.  
“Any change in the situation since that?”  
“Dunno, probably out of ammo by now though.”  
“Yeah, dumb bastards spent everything on chewing up the car, but not before I could get to the trunk,” the other officer laughed, proudly displaying the hefty shotgun in his hands.  
“You had contact with any other officers?”  
“No,” he shook his head. “Radio’s shot, too.” Vincent cussed quietly, weighing the situation in his mind, balancing whether or not to stay.   
“Have you seen a man matching this description,” Sally jumped in. “Middle height, brown hair, middle aged? Anything like that?”  
“What the- Oh, uh- No,” the officer sputtered, seeing the badge hanging from the nandroid’s jacket pocket. “We didn’t get a look at who was shooting at us, no.”  
“By my estimation,” the narrower veteran joined, “those were some thugs they threw out to hold the police up. Obviously don’t know their way around a gun, more an annoyance than a danger.”  
“On the dot,” the detective responded. “Can you two hold down the fort here?”  
“Sure, detective, but I don’t know what good-”  
“It’ll do plenty good. You’re a screen- those kids probably dipped back underground to fetch more ammo, but they’re not smart enough to use that to get around you.”  
“Sir?”  
“They’re gonna pop back up, unload a few hundred more rounds in your general direction, then leave. If you two can get up on the rooftops you can play whack-a-mole and have ‘em out.”  
“Understood, sir.”  
“Good man,” Vincent said. “Now- make sure to identify *before* you shoot next time, okay?” The officer nodding, Vincent waved his compatriots after him to return to the car. Digging in the trunk he parsed out the heavy firepower to Sally, who pocketed her revolver in turn. The other two hopped back in the rear, high-power rifles standing at attention between their legs, sprung fresh from the armory into arms already acquainted with them. The fire in the adjacent building was growing, billowing clouds flooding out into the air. Sally grasped the radio handset in hand as Vincent drove, slower now, peering across the low rooftops and pitted streets, eyeing with care each manhole cover or storm drain that stared back. The robot called out to the crowded airwaves for information, crackling voices responding in turn. She repeated the description repeatedly, pleading for information on the airways. Edging deeper into the west end, closer and closer to the water, the flames only grew more intense, any wintry snip dispelled in the fuming, orange-lit clouds. Panicked spits across the air called for assistance where none could be offered, the distinctive ringing of fire engines joining the hellish noise outside, accompanied too by ambulances.   
“Saw- similar- at the docks-,” one voice poured through the radio.  
“Vincent, the docks.” He nodded silently, whipping left towards the coast. The car carried them, bobbing to and fro between burning car wrecks, into the molten heart of the ebbing wave of violence seizing the city. The sprawling port, one of Beacon City’s hearts of commerce, was abandoned. The wail of sirens was louder now, concrete barricades overturned in places where cars had thoughtlessly rammed into them. Swerving through the maze of toppled concrete and gnarled car wrecks the quartet eased their way into the massive complex. Asphalt spread out to the thin, blue horizon beyond, ships anxiously avoiding the blazing docks as they bobbed in the water. The automatic pop of gunfire and whistle of ricochets filled the air. Speeding through alleyways between shipping containers Vincent slammed the brakes, everyone lurching forward as he nearly smashed into a line of concrete barricades. The barrel of a shotgun pressed against the glass.  
“Out, now!”  
“Not this again,” he thought to himself. He flashed his badge, swinging the door open angrily.   
“O-Oh! Sorry det-”  
“Save it, son,” he grunted. “Who’s in charge around here?” The young officer lowered the gun, pointing to a man shouting loudly into a handset, the blasted and bullet-cracked lights on his squad car extinguished.   
“Captain Bradford, detective.” Patting him on the shoulder he marched over to the small command station jury rigged from blasted pieces of corrugated steel and barricades. Sheltering behind a container was a curly-haired man, grizzled, relaying orders and directions to and from people in the field. Vincent stepped beside him, tapping his shoulder and flashing his badge.  
“Captain Bradford, correct?”  
“That’s me, who’re you?”   
“Detectives la Fontaine and, er, Sally, Vice. And two deputies, Atkinson and Williams.”  
“A pleasure, but what are you doing here?”  
“Well, Captain, all of this,” Vincent gestured out towards the hostile tarmac beyond, “is one of our cases.”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Allow me to explain, Captain,” Sally interjected. The man’s eyes widened in shock looking at the pale, round face but he held his tongue. “We were investigating an overdose, a case which unfortunately expanded in scope and intensity to this point.” A flurry of bullets whizzed overhead.   
“Yeah but who the hell in their right mind is putting up this much of a fight over some fucking drugs, I mean-”  
“They’re weathermen,” the taller of the deputies said, his wide nose flaring angrily.  
“Fuckin’ hell, what is this? Sixty nine?”  
“It’s worse than that Bradford,” Vincent continued. “They’re armed, as you have likely learned, as well if not better than us.”  
“Yeah no shit,” he spat. “My issue has been digging them out of here.”  
“That’s why we came, sir,” the robot added. “The description I was reading out on the radio is who we suspect is leading this, at least in part.”  
“That ‘sighting’ was purely speculative, miss. I’ve been sending patrols out with whatever I can give ‘em to keep a perimeter clear, and one of them came back having seen him and half-dozen more of the perps.”  
“That’s all we needed to hear,” Vincent said. “Let’s move it out.”  
“Wait, wait! You don’t get it- they’re doing the same thing, I mean,” he stopped. “This part of the city’s been the most intense in the past hour. North end of the docks and into the park is the worst, taken a lot of fire from there.” It dawned on Vincent, now, the focus of the operation was around the industrial park, the heartland of Beacon City in more ways than one. Thousands were employed in it across numerous industries and businesses and, in the years previous, it had been the scene of too many union strikes. It was also home to a conspicuously wholesome little bakery.   
“That’s where we’re going, then. And if we catch our guy on the way, all the better.”  
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he grumbled. “Commissioner gave me command of one of the SWAT teams for that exact purpose, and I haven’t heard back in twenty minutes now.” The latest revelation fell on the four of them like a sack of bricks, sagging their intentions with the ponderous weight of imminent danger. But it was for the city, for the people, they knew. The little robot, cheeks sparked with determination, locked eyes with the police captain, his cap removed as he raked his curly hair with his hand.  
“We’ll get them back, sir. I promise you that.”  
“We’ve got a handle on this Bradford,” the other detective added, removing his service revolver from his coat jacket. The two deputies nodded in response, rifles held at their hips, ready to go. The captain smiled weakly, nodding imperceptibly as they set out on foot into the no man’s land ahead of them. Some five hundred meters of ground separated the party and hellish core of the deepening battle in Beacon City.


	17. Eclipse

The four officers advanced quickly, ground escaping beneath their trodding feet as the sporadic clap of gunfire grew louder, more ferocious. It snapped and clawed at them as they jumped from container to concrete palisade, each covering the other. Where they met resistance they swept it away with ease, exchanges of gunfire rocketing between abandoned steel crates loaded with now-ruined goods. The intensity of resistance only amplified as they came within two hundred meters of the chunky brick building which peeked and loomed over the colored containers, windows popped open and occasionally bleeding gunfire towards them, paffs of concrete or shattered asphalt peppering their faces as they sheltered where they could.  
“We’re close,” Vincent yelled over an especially irate hammering of fire. “They’re gonna keep on us for the rest of the way!” The duo of soldiers peered about, isolating, between ducks of the head and spirited language, their current attacker. Vincent and the men pushed ahead with practiced, if rusty, precision, barking orders and affirmations as they moved past each other.  
“Robot, come on,” the narrower of the two shouted backwards. She panted heavily, synthetic breath catching, sticky, in her throat, rasps of air muffled by the hellish zip of rifle rounds overhead. She jerked her head left, eyeing the waiting trio and hefting her long gun in hand. Ducking low she rushed up ahead to join the men before they worked up ahead again. They repeated this game of leapfrog, the robot nervously tailing behind and waiting on the all-clear before she anxiously jogged after them. Her fingers gripped the checkered furniture with care, lugging the heavy gun in her arms and swinging from side to side. Her engagement programming saved her the civilian embarrassment of trying to zigzag when running for cover, but not the ponderous movements of a small person carrying something too heavy for them.   
“Alright, we’re a short run from the front door of the bakery,” Vincent panted, shuffling further from the edge after a stray round clinged off the ground. “Once we get to the door things are gonna be heavy.”  
“Are you gonna be okay,” Mitchell said, turning to Sally. He recognized the look in her eyes, apertures narrowing and dazed. He shook her lightly. “Hey, stick with me here. When we get in there, it’s gonna be bad. But you gotta remember who you’re doing this for.” He gazed into her shivering eyes. She nodded assuredly, the bob of her head picking up pace until she was rocking it, whispering affirmations to herself as she stood up.  
“Let’s go,” she stomped, flinging herself from cover and beginning the mad, final dash for the front door of the factory. Commandeered bags of flour and any other factory detritus surrounded it. Unsure, young faces peered over the bags at the little group of people, dashing from spot to spot under fire, approaching them. The handful of older men whipped them to action, calling orders to their underlings with military gusto. Chattering semi-automatic fire raked the ground around them, youthful arms unaccustomed to combat not bothering to aim, only pointing and firing. They were in close, the scornful yelling of either party swallowed in each exchange of fire. Mitchell and Sally hung low and swept right, the dark factory windows above staring down at them, menacing.   
“Alright Sally,” he murmured to her, “Booker and Vince are gonna watch us but we gotta be the ones to get up there and give ‘em a chance to follow up.” Sober, the man was transformed. His shaggy beard was rugged, not perverse and sweaty like before, and his clear eyes beamed at the robot even through the intermittent smog choking the city as the fires continued to rage. He gestured in jerky waves of the hand, chopping the thick air and running her through every step they had to follow, down to the letter.   
“Let’s do it then.”  
“We gotta smoke em out first, thankfully you won’t have to deal with this, but,” he started, hefting a tear gas canister sparingly dropped in his hand by a handful of riot officers they’d come upon, “it’ll be bad for us.”  
“Wait!” She showed him her hand, the complex matrices and plates splaying open to show the nozzle neatly nestled in her wrist. Sterling knew these robots would be wielding guns, but erred (like always) on the side of caution, of preparedness. Mitchell eyed it warily, averting his gaze lest she accidentally blind him.   
“Alright then,” he clapped her on the back. “Let’s move.” The duo vaulted over their last shelter, just yards from the left side of the factory entrance. A low concrete wall surrounded the dense brick building, the pair rounding the spitting guns and finding themselves, mercifully, in one piece behind it. Mitchell winced briefly, miniscule fragments of asphalt peppering his ankle from the impact of bullets behind him. Blood oozed lazily from the skin, but he bit it back when he noticed the immense worry on the robot’s face.  
“Mitche-”  
“I’m fine Sally,” he grunted. “Just stings a bit- I’ve had worse, believe me.” Tossing his head up he pointed to the top of the low wall, more a stylishly dull fence than anything authoritative enough to keep people out. But, Mitchell popping his arms up to blind-fire a handful of rounds, it was perfect. Sally, less perturbed by the flurry of return fire after each sightless spray from the man beside, peeked over the edge, barrel resting on the concrete edge. She locked eyes with a man, giant lenses half-covering his face, holding a carbine one-handed. Unconsciously she brought the shotgun to bear, lining up the bead with his exposed chest. Like some antiquated arquebusier she leant hard into the shotgun, legs split into a triangle. A single, gentle squeeze on the trigger sent the man reeling, chest peppered in red gore as he crumpled. The sight sent her back under their little parapet in shock. She’d fired a gun in anger but never seen the aftermath, thinking now of how many rounds, and how many more bits of lead shot, she’d sent down that tunnel.   
“Oh, oh no-”  
“Hey,” he yelled, ducking down after another volley, “there’s no time for that!” He yanked her up by the arm and pointed at the smattering of kids with their hands raised.   
“O-Oh-”  
“Let’s go,” he yelled, a cry of agreement returning from the opposite end of the parking lot they’d been advancing across. Vincent and Booker rushed up to meet the two, the broken barricades littered with moaning or whimpering people.   
“Booker, you got it.”  
“Right.” The man broke away from Vince, scanning the faces of the defeated youths, suckered into a fight none of them knew of nor wanted. Of the dozen or so who’d been there two were wounded, badly and only one, much older, dead. “C’mon you bastards, let’s go.” He prodded them in the backs with the barrel of his rifle, parading them back and away from the factory’s entrance. He nodded his head at Mitchell who returned the gesture, the man disappearing into the maze of abandoned cars in the lot, and the dockyard beyond. Another little puff of concrete dust erupted from the ground as a poorly-aimed shot bounced from between the three of them. Scuttling up to the front door they braced for entry.  
“We ready?”  
“After you, Vince,” the other man grinned. “You know what we’re getting into here?”  
“Last time I had a tour of this place was elementary school.”  
“So no?”  
“No.”  
“Damn, hate this shit,” he spat. “Sally, you armored?”  
“Sorry wh- oh! Yes, I am Mitchell,” she patted her chest, proud of the fine Sterling engineering inside. “I’m rated NIJ III for-”  
“Sorry sugar, you’re gonna have to explain on the way- hear that?” The trunch of boots bounding along carpeted floors gently slipped out the open second floor window. He turned to her. “I want you on point, okay?” Nodding, the robot pressed open the door to the factory building.


	18. The Grand Finale

Inside it was painfully quiet, the clatter of outside muffled save for the tramp of feet overhead and the occasional pop on some higher floor. They faced a ravaged receptionist’s desk, papers strewn around in a panic, a phone handset dangling over the side.  
“Well, where to Vince?”  
“Up, I suppose- hell, we don’t even know if he’s here.”  
“Vincent,” Sally nudged, “the scene, the baked goods.” He nodded, understanding.  
“Sorry?”  
“We’ll explain on the way up. In the meantime, let’s find a staircase.” Sally led the way, slowly, pressing doors open one by one as they edged down a hallway of first-floor offices. Coming to its end they found their access stairway- locked. Sally pressed the two men back with her hand, smashing in the butt of her shotgun against the heavy glass. Rebounding and nearly losing her feet, she yanked the handle and pulled herself up. Taking stance the butt smashed against the glass again and again before it gave way, the nandroid worming her hand through and freeing the handle. Waving the two men after her she started the grim ascent to the factory’s top floor. Her partner behind her explained the situation that brought them here, the evident origin of a gruesome portion of the city’s heroine, and as it was becoming clear the nexus of weathermen activity.  
“Hold up,” Sally said. Shoes were squeaking down the stairway, voices chattering in martial eagerness. She leant over the rail to peer up the few stories, catching sight of shimmering sleeves flapping in the air. Letting loose a cone of shot upwards she caught them, forcing them to stop. Leaping two steps at a time she towed the other two after her, combative, synthetic instinct carrying her once again. The stench of gunpowder started to fill the narrow stairwell, Sally rounding the corner to the next stairwell. Through acrid, sulfuric air she spied one watching the ascent, firing as soon as they locked eyes. She pulled again, sending him backwards with a gaping hole in his abdomen. Two bullets stuck leisurely in her chestplate, the diminutive pistol rounds doing little to stop her.  
“You good Sal?”  
“Perfect, come on!” The two men stuck behind the robot, glancing sideways and popping from behind railings. The few remaining thugs were expertly dispatched by the team, rounding the stairs to the third floor. Busting through the final door to an atrium more fitting an office building than an industrial bakery the three spread out, overlooking the factory floor. Dozens of armed men hurried about, but that’s not who they were here for. Pulling back to one of the office rooms they listened for anything other than the tramp of boots or shouting of orders, realization setting in amongst the weathermen that something was dangerously amiss.   
“Sal you hear that?”  
“What Vince?”  
“That-” He pointed across the wall to a small wooden door leading into the next block of office space. There was a harsh shouting, struggling and the cry of orders, desperate calls for any kind of support. “Odds are that’s where he is.”  
“Got it.” Sally crouched up, sliding up alongside the diminutive wooden door. It wouldn’t budge as the jiggling knob revealed. She reared up for a kick, sending herself backwards and into a cubicle by accident, hitting the floor with a thump. Well that she did, the door chewed apart by the bark of automatic weapons fire, splinters of wood clinging to her coat and sprinkling in her hair. Scrabbling back and away from the gaping doorway, Sally smacked her hand on the drywall, eyeing the other two. Vince and Mitchell swung on the opposite end, guns at the ready for the next person to come through that door.  
“BCPD! COME OUT, NOW,” a voice roared from the other room.   
“Oh fuck off,” Mitchell yelled back. “Oldest trick in the book, idiots!”  
“Wait, man,” Vincent whispered, grabbing his arm. “The SWAT team?” Mitchell shrugged, Sally mimicking the gesture.  
“YOU’VE GOT FIVE SECONDS!”  
“Hey assholes, we’re with you!” Another shout calling for a slow and steady surrender thoroughly ignored him. Vincent pulled out his badge, rolling his eyes- *this* again. Stepping slowly, carefully, away from the wall, Vincent catapulted the leather booklet through the wooden hole. A scattering of shots traced past it before Vincent watched a gloved hand nab it off the ground. The order to come out, slowly, was enough affirmation.   
“If we get shot it’s on you,” Mitchell grumbled. They scooted together towards the door, Sally the first to peer in at the beady eyes of three men, guns trained on her chest, staring back.  
“Hello!” She waved, tense, trying to work a smile in. A younger man in the back waved back, tufts of blonde hair trapped by his helmet. The man next to him slapped his hand down.   
“Move it,” the leading man prodded, swinging his barrel back and forth. Advancing into the dismal, broken office space they slowly made their intentions clear. Vincent’s badge skipped across the ground to his feet, the detective taking it up again. The three officers were bruised and bloodied, dark black stains marring their deep blue uniforms and streaks of cloth torn away by shrapnel and stray rounds, their ballistic helmets pitted and dented in places.   
“So! I think some introductions are in order,” Vince let out, slipping his sidearm away.   
“Detective Vincent la Fontaine, yes- who’s the robot and who’s the bum?”  
“Look, we don’t have time fo-”  
“You do, so please,” he gestured with his carbine, “introduce us.”  
“Detective Sally,” the maidbot joined, neatly flashing her own provisional badge.   
“Mitch.”  
“Mitch…”  
“*Just* Mitch.”  
“Well can you tell us what in the dandy-fuck you’re doing in here?”  
“Same that you’re doing, pal,” Vince spat, lowering his hands. “We’re trying to clear up the root of the *issue* here.”  
“Which is?”  
“There’s not really time for long winded explanations given the position we’re both in, is there?”  
“I suppose not, Vincent, but it’d be a grand help if you could explain what the hell we were called up into- and what’s killed two of my men already.”  
“I’ll make it short, okay? It’s ‘69 but worse, simple as that. Weathermen are swinging their dicks around the city and raising hell.” Sally blushed at the choice of words. “We don’t know *why*, but we know this is their home, or something akin to it.”  
“Jesus…” The mention of that year was enough to cast a shadow in the mind of any officer, old or new. “Look, there’s not much help I can give you. We lost our radio as soon as we made it to the top floor, and we’ve just commandeered a handset before holing up here. What I can say is that the exec office is where they’re holding out heaviest.”  
“And where would that be?”  
“Through that door and all the way across- we tried for it and nearly got chewed up.”  
“Christ alive,” Mitchell muttered behind them. Sally’s eyes were dilating again, her breathing quickening. Vincent was realizing he had to get her into action again lest she seize up.  
“Tell us everything you know.”  
“Like I said, it’s on the opposite end of the building. You’re gonna be making the long walk through these offices, or you can go straight across by way of the atrium.” Vincent’s brow wrinkled again, chewing the inside of his mouth in thought.   
“What are these offices looking like?”  
“Likely teeming with the fuckers, nothing less than dozens in that space. Lightly armed, thank God, mostly pistol caliber.”  
“Figured as much,” he said, nodding to Sally and the two glimmering, de-jacketed rounds plugged in her chest.   
“I’d have her out front for sure, she can take it.” The other officers nodded in agreement, Sally nonplussed at the assumed compliment. She couldn’t help but redden up a bit, enough to take her mind off things at least for a moment.   
“Mitch, what do you think?”  
“More cover, more combat. Simple as that,” he sniffed. “So long as we’re careful about it, *careful* not slow, we’ll be in good shape.”  
“Sally?”  
“Oh, I-,” she stopped, not sure what to think, really. In either situation she’d be out front, not exactly as well covered as the other two. Then again, she did have a generous allotment of plating front and back that set her apart, as well as tactical inferential reasoning, superior firing capabilities, the list went on. “I’ll do what’s safer for you two.”  
“I’d take her up on that,” the team chief joined. “Way I *think* it’s happening is they’re going to be moving out of this building soon, judging by how much less gunfire we’re hearing. If you’re gonna breach that office now’s the time. We’ll be right behind you should you need it.”  
“Well Vince,” Sally said, giving him a meager smile. “You heard the man.” He bobbed his head, the three making way to the next door to round the corner of the surrounding office space. 

Their progress was swift, no more than ten minutes spent moving down the rows of cubicles and meeting spaces, tables overturned and blasted-through by their disciplined fire. It was savage battle, close and claustrophobic in the increasingly weighty, charred air. Lights flickered as the power weakened and failed, flashing out indecipherable morse-code messages as Sally crept forward, the eyes for the other two in the absence of light. Broken fluorescent lights hissed and popped above them while they crept forward, turning corners and blowing holes in flimsy particle board walls where the nandroid directed their fire. Each successive meter of carpet covered was a step deeper into the maw of the building. The outer brick walls cracked and heaved in the darkness, peppering fire from outside raking the walls. A stray round here or there would pop in through a rare window, forcing their heads down as they crawled belly-down towards a collection of whispers or the sharp release of a charging handle, another round chambered.   
Finally light returned, dim and yellow, but there. Wallpaper tarnished and rotted in the smoke, peeling in places as the glue surrendered to the warm embrace of intruding smoke, the familiar ring of sirens leaking into the building again. They were close, perilously close, as the resistance intensified. Steel desks were flipped and facing them expectantly, heads or arms popping up to spray rounds down the length of the offices at their assailants. Splinters of cheap veneer and fragments of steel chairs cut the cheeks of the two humans who hugged what little protection was available to them, their robot companion edging forward and tanking round after round. Her dented chest plate was peppered with copper jackets and the odd round stuck in place, mushroomed pieces of stray lead dropping to the ground. She pressed ahead ruthlessly, mechanically dispatching those not wise enough to turn back and retreat up the length of the office, waving forward her partners as each successive row of cubicles was cleaned out.   
And there it was- the last door at the end of the lengthy corridor of devastated prefab walls, toppled desks and dishevelled breakroom furniture. It glistened slightly, greasy with the gentle accumulation of soot on its wooden surface. The small posse stood around it, Sally reaching into her pockmarked jacket for a handful of extra shells. Finding none she disposed of the long gun and retrieved her trusty service revolver. She gasped and sank to the floor, breathing heavy.  
“Just a second, please,” she panted. Catching her breath she rose again, steadied a little, and turned to the slowly blackening slab. Nudging the handle she swung the door open, all three scrambling out of the way as they pierced the executive office, the convenient room label fallen, abandoned, on the ground, its letters askew and missing.   
“You can come on out, it’s just me,” a voice grumbled, resigned. “We’re evacuating this building, you know.”  
“John,” Sally whispered. Mitchell tipped his head. She popped her pale face over a split roundtable to spy the balding, middle-aged man sitting alone in a leather office chair, seated at the other, standing half of the table.   
“Come, come,” he invited them. “Not like I have much time left, now do I?”  
“Get to the point you slimy mother-”  
“Spare me, *Mitchell*, you never had the full picture, the raw *vision* for this kind of work. Not like me, no sir.” He cackled to himself, enjoying the little speech he was giving. Vincent leveled his own sidearm at the giggling man, grimly pulling the hammer back with his thumb. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he smiled, raising his wrist gently. A slim little wire sat coiled to his finger, slinking up his arm from there.  
“Lord, man, can’t you see-”  
“Ah ah,” he chided, now holding a gun. “I’ll be doing the talking here. It’s not every day I have a pair of pigs to monologue with while sitting on, oh, several hundred pounds of plastic explosive. I’d choose your words carefully in these next, few, crucial moments.”  
“You’re crazy you son of a bitch, that’ll take the building down-”  
“And, Mitchell? You could live for the cause, the *struggle*,” he fanned his hand in the air, handgun clenched in his fingers, “but never *die* for it. You’ve seen enough death already, yes?” Sally rustled her hand in the pierced corduroy pocket, taking aim carefully.   
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put the gun down.”   
“Oh! How rich, the police equipment, the chattel, speaking automaton, is here to arrest *me*! The noble champion of robot-liberation, friend to outmodes and enemy of the robotic companies, the handler. Tell me- have you ever stopped to ask why? Why you are an object to be owned and why I, or your partner, are free to think and to feel and to act? Why does *he* give all the orders, why does *he* outrank *you*? You were made, by design, for police work, and yet he’s your better. Curious, no?” Sally stared unblinking at him, the rapid electronic churning of her internal processors forcing her to pause, the heavy dimpling of her chestplate from repeated impacts not doing anything to help.   
“Sally, don’t-” She turned her head to Vince, hair swishing enough to free a few of the old wood chips still there. Tilting her head at him, hair dipping onto her face, eyeing him up and down. Turning her back to the waiting man, now smiling wider as she faced her two partners, she slid up behind his fine office chair, gun in the open air.   
“Don’t worry Vince,” she sneered. “But I do think he’s got a point.” She blinked at him, he assumed, hair covering her eye now.   
“I got this Vincent,” Mitchell joined, raising his rifle at the robot.  
“Hold it.” He pressed the barrel down with his off hand, gun still half-trained on John.   
“Glad to see you’re not as hot headed as Mitch here... Vincent, was it? Well, regardless- your robot’s made her decision,” he giggled raising his handgun at Vincent. “Sorr-”   
A shot clapped the ears of the four people assembled in the room. The instantaneous descent of a hammer, the strike of a firing pin into primer, the delicate swirling ballet of a bullet flying free of its casing; all of these transpired in an instant, a fraction of a heartbeat to men, or several exchanges of ones and zeros for the robot. The robot who, stone faced, had pulled the trigger. The round rotated in the air before blasting into the man’s hand, skillfully below the wire and into his thumb, shattering the metacarpal of his palm there and gliding through tendon and muscle, fattening and flattening as it continued before sputtering out of the gory tunnel it had bored into his hand and across the proximal of his middle finger where it wrapped around the handgun. Sputtering out it languidly flew across the room, tinkling coin-like in some unknown, carpeted corner of the meeting room. The man howled in pain, his hand disassembled in a single squeeze, handgun dropping uselessly at Sally’s feet where she scooped it up for safe-keeping. The wire still intact she breathed a sigh, nodding to Vincent.  
“Let’s finish this.” She snapped her fingers for cuffs, coupling the man’s one good hand and its wounded mirror behind him. “Well, we got him. Now what?”  
“Now what,” he grunted, teeth gritting as his last good fingers writhed and marinated in the coagulating slurry around them. “‘Now’ isn’t anything, you damned morons… Not like there’s anything to stop this, heh, there’s a fire going now. They, the people, see what can be done, what changes can be made, when a little ‘hard power’ is applied- that’s the word, right? *Hard power*?” Mitchell kicked him hard in the back, air wheezing from the crumpled man’s lungs.   
“Shut it old man,” he whispered into the man’s ear, “You’ve lost, you’ve-”  
“I’ve lost nothing,” he angrily foamed, “I kept you here long enough to occupy you. The movement will live on without me, and will flourish without the likes of you.” The door behind them, slacking half-open on its hinges, was kicked open again as the man scurried beneath his desk. The trio of SWAT officers held their guns at the ready, bloodied, stolen uniforms ill-fitting, dragging and hastily donned. Sally reacted faster than the other two, snapping two shots towards the throat of the lead weatherman as her partners dived for meager cover behind a brick pillar. Sally stepped on and over the muttering lieutenant, shielding him with her body as best she could. Her two shots took purchase in the unarmored neck of the man, jets of crimson drooling from his mouth and carotid artery as he fumbled backwards. His partners dashed for shelter too, finding ground inside the executive bathroom to the side of the office, the two taking turns pouring fire out at the gathered posse.   
“Sally, what’s the sitch,” Vincent screamed from behind the chipping brick pillar.  
“Two left, sir,” she threw back, ducking behind the table and firing two more shots towards the tiled room.   
“Got it! Mitch, can you move?” The other man had slipped back out of the office, forming an angle on the doorway from the office hallway.   
“Already did!”  
“Good, see if-,” A spit of fire raked the brick pillar, Vince forced into the confines of its shadow. “See if you can get around by the door! Jesus...”  
“Gotchu,” he reared up at the door frame, eyes glued to the glowing portal across from him, the black flash of a gun barrel poking out before slipping inside again. Sally trained her gun on the doorway while Mitchell dashed to the corner of the room, rifle trained on it as he slid into place, Sally letting loose a singular suppressive blast at the door. She slapped the ejector rod and fumbled in her pocket for more ammo, turning to Vincent.  
“Vince you got any?”  
“Hold up,” he yelled back, kneeling behind the wall. He picked up and ran for the desk, the bounding of his legs yanking him across the room towards his partner. Head twisting back to the door, she watched the first of the two men rush out, torso twisting to his right and peppering the table with rounds, splinters and the continuing slivers of lead tumbling towards her and her charge. Rotating her body the mass of the other handgun she’d taken pressed from her torn pocket, hand dropping her first sidearm thoughtlessly and going for the second. Taking it up she affixed the sights on the man in the center of the room, black helmet loose and a quarter-way down the back of his head. Squeezing the trigger a single round twinkled through the air and tore into his shoulder, grinding along the length of his clavicle and into his lower neck. In her periphery, though, his buddy was already peering out the door, the robot calculating the angle as center of mass, Vincent. She leant right and brought the pistol to bear on him in turn, the hammer striking dry, clicking uselessly. He only needed the one bullet, bastard.  
“Mitch,” she shrieked, the man already in motion as the first of the attackers tumbled forward and collapsed at the foot of the pillar, a grisly pool of arterial red already forming about his head, mouth gasping fish-like for air where none was found. The man opposite the room had drawn a bead on the other who peered from the door, his eyes taught and narrow as he squeezed the trigger repeatedly. Fingers tightened in sync and together, a burst of rounds bound for Vincent as he sprinted for Sally, another three rounds bound for the pelvis of the second weatherman. Time slowed before Sally’s eyes, the gelatinous goop of smoky air sticking and accloying her eyes, her throat. It held the bullets suspended, chugging along as they twirled noiselessly above the ground. Two found their mark in the weatherman as he slipped right, femur and pelvis silently cracked, the third impacting the opposite wall, far left of Sally’s head. All four found purchase in Vincent, a jagged constellation of grim red holes weeping out of his white button-up, the man pitching up and over to the wall right of Sally.


	19. Speak to Me

It was quiet again, Sally stiff and frozen in place. She didn’t know who to go to, who to check. Should she arrest them? Administer first-aid, or were they dead already? And the lieutenant lying beneath her, what was of him? Evidently the building hadn’t been eviscerated in the rapturous detonation of several hundred pounds of high explosive, but it wouldn’t help to dally, not at all. And there was Vincent, prone, holes poked into his suit jacket that she’d taken the other night. Splayed on the ground, motionless, he pulsed weakly with each sucking breath as his shirt staining red, the carpet following soon after. Shouts called to her, but she could only stare, frozen in the gluey stillness of the air, stuck in the smoky resin forming around her. A breeze came in through the window and ruffled her hair.  
“Sally, come on!” Mitchell was frantically waving her over, kneeling beside her partner and ripping his clothes off. “Sally!” Rifle in one hand he lanced a shot against the far wall, chips of drywall vaporizing in an instant. The crack of the gun snapped her back to attention, dropping her head to spy the man beneath her. Not dead, but certainly dying. His eyes were glassy, frantic- where the previous gush of gunfire at her had missed her legs and body they’d hit him as intended.  
“Mitch we gotta move!”  
“Then help me and let’s go!” Sally ran over to the scene, together flipping the shirtless officer over on his back. She ripped her undershirt off, ripping strips of cloth from the ruined garment to dress the gushing wounds. The man beneath them groaned quietly, coughs erupting little spittles of blood as his head twisted in half-consciousness. He gritted his teeth with each pull of a knot’s end, the tightening pressure around his abdomen leading him to groan louder, gnashing his teeth. “That’s good, pain’s good. Come on, help him up.”  
“Sir!” The robot, referring to standard triage cycles in her head, helped heft the detective onto Mitchell's shoulders, arm pulled across his chest.  
“Grab the gun, we’re probably gonna have to fight our way out of here”  
“Got it!” Slinging her hand down she grabbed the gun, pulling it to attention as she took point again, guiding her partner down the perilous length of the office space. The walk was faster, less careful and certainly less secure. The fires outside were encroaching ever closer to the factory, the air solidifying around them with choking, suffocating soot. She took Mitchell’s opposite hand, guiding the man through the scattered debris and stray body from their previous rampage, eyes inhumanly piercing the dark. Breaking for the abandoned stairwell, mercifully clearer of the invading smoke, they stuttered down step-by-step, the shock of each bounce down eliciting a whimper from the fading officer. Barrelling out of the stairwell and into the empty foyer Sally lurched ahead, pressing that last door open.  
Sunlight, if obscured, and fresh air relieved them. Their pace slowed briefly before she tugged Mitchell’s hand again, reminding him of the ticking bomb lying in the building behind them. The wail of sirens battered their already gunfire-stricken ears, the muffled warble closing in. Shouts came from the end of the parking lot as the police called for them to surrender. The building was surrounded, they said, and it was futile to continue the fight. Tired of it Sally sent the rifle clattering to the ground, approaching the police line with Mitchell in tow.  
“Stop right there!” She rolled her exhausted eyes, reaching for her jacket pocket. Her badge had a delightfully neat hole punched through it in two places, eyes staring through them as she held it in the face of the grim little man in front of her. Ushered through the police cordon she sped around, Mitchell behind her, begging for an ambulance. The distinct sinusoidal scream of their sirens was deafened by the mess of noise that assaulted her now, fires roaring in the distance or smashing of glass, scattered, certainly less numerous, pops of gunfire from a distant rooftop. But nowhere in that orchestration of hell could she hear an ambulance. Plunging backwards towards the police captain they’d met previously they returned to the small headquarters he’d established.  
“Captain Bradford,” Sally panted idly, the man turning to her.  
“Who the- oh, Jesus Christ,” he gasped. “The fuck happened in there?”  
“No time Captain, we need a fuckin’ ambulance, *now*.”  
“I’ve set up an aid station back here,” he jumped up, jogging with the two in tow. “We grabbed one to hole up here with us but I can spare it now, if the building’s secure.”  
“Building’s about to blow, sir,” Sally explained, detailing the dead-man’s-switch nearing its unstoppable terminus inside the factory, grimly joining it with the demise of the SWAT team.  
“Christ, move then!” He whipped them along, frantically returning to his radio to call out orders to pull back and clear the area.

Desperate the duo found the shimmering, boxy ambulance- more like a hearse than anything else. Sally pounded on the back, two paramedics swinging it open and ushering out a mildly burned policeman with his arm bandaged.  
“What’s the injury,” the one asked.  
“No time,” Sally screamed, pulling Mitchell up by the arm into the bay of the ambulance. She snapped her fingers at the two medics, the order to drive given as the car peeled away. Slamming the doors shut behind them the medics set to work, doing their damnedest to return fluid to the increasingly pallid detective. The thump of his heart became slow and laboured, hammering in his chest with greater and greater resistance. The glaring lights in the bay of the ambulance blinded the man, foggy visions around him calling for plasma, if they knew his blood type. He knew it, of course, had he been wiser he’d have it etched somewhere into his skin. But he was not wiser, he realized, wasting his time like he had, never asking the questions he’d wanted to or offering the propositions he’d held in the back of his head. A hand caressed his face, head lolling to the left and right as the ambulance, or whatever finely-lit casket he thought he was in, swung through the cluttered streets. He shivered internally, the gentle iciness of the surrounding world embracing him slowly, beginning in his toes and extremities where it could find more purchase, but marching closer to his core. Cool and wet it gripped his forehead and neck, sweating itself away and around him in its mortal entirety. The ambulance sped faster to the hospital, Sally and Mitchell holding the man steady as the medics desperately forced him to cling, however weak, onto life.


	20. Heroes

The air was clean again, the anarchic raging in the city stymied by the police, fires extinguished and perpetrators rounded up. There was still the issue of the smouldering pile of debris where once stood the Beacon City Bakery, but that would have to wait. Outside it was snowing just a little, tenuous drifts of white mixing to a dismally grey, toxic slurry in the still-ashen streets. Inside, though, there was the frantic hustle of hospital staff scurrying to and fro, the dramatic chorus of sirens replaced by the odd, singular cry now and then. Aside from that, it was mercifully quiet again, the forecast of more snow coming welcome news for children still too young to process what had happened the other day. And outside that hospital, wading through the silent curtains of snow, a red-haired woman found her way up to the third floor. She’d gotten the call from another lady-like voice on the line, time dripping at glacial pace as they anxiously waited outside the theater, neither having the stomach to leave. The robot, still dazed from the day before, offered a sympathetic hand to hold for her. She took it gladly, not wanting to bother the other two men, idly smoking or laughing with each other, with her want of comfort. She’d never expected it to come to this, frankly. Hours later, the two sleepily leant on the other’s shoulder, they were jostled awake by the burlier of the two men.  
“He’s out, barely,” he sniffed.   
“Can we see him,” Sally asked.  
“You can go in, but he’s still, uh, knocked out,” he snorted lightly. The robot took up a seat in the room, watching the gentle rise and fall, perilously shallow, of the man’s chest. All manner of machinery ticked gently beside him, girding him closer to precious life should he start to slip. The woman took a seat besides her, the two idly watching him; up and down, up and down. That was all there was, Sally excusing herself so she could return to work- there were reports to be submitted and, after all, the case wasn’t *closed*, just gruesomely blown apart, and they’d need a robot’s touch to correct that. Shallow white light turned to blissful blue nighttime by the time he was awake.  
“Vincent?”  
“Sherry,” he whispered. He’d like to laugh, but it would likely tear a stitch, or hurt like a sumbitch at the least. Best not to. “Wazzup?”  
“Not much,” she twirled her hair. “It’s cold out today, huh?”  
“I dunno, I haven’t been able to turn my head yet.”  
“Well, it’s snowing outside!”  
“That’s nice,” he coughed. “Can you tell me what else is outside?”  
“Well…,” she languished, the city not exactly in the right shape for that. “It’s nighttime, not sure if you knew.”  
“Mhm…”  
“And- oop! A taxi went by! A lot of the snow’s starting to stick, now. No more slush, huh?”  
“Yay…”  
“Hey, not like you’re the one who’s gonna be shovelling out there tomorrow!”  
“Knowing Crawley,” he mumbled, “I’ll be out there in the morning, salting.” She giggled at the joke, knowing all too well the rather pressing attitude of the commissioner. It was terribly dark outside now, the play of streetlights in the sheets of snow falling telling her it was either go no, or stay the night.   
“Hey Vince, it’s snowing real hard out there. I, uh, don’t wanna get snowed in.” He gulped, worried again. He wanted to ask her that thing he’d been meaning to but had never gotten the courage to say, to spit out and relieve the aching pressure it left in his chest. He couldn’t do it now, like this- but an approximation would do well enough.  
“Will you come visit tomorrow?” He wedged his eyes open enough to meet the green little orbs, softer and kinder looking back at him. He watched a smile creep to her face, gently creasing her lips.  
“I will, Vince. That sounds nice.”  
“Thanks, I’ll see you at my place.” He could risk laughing here if it meant seeing her smile a bit wider, her tender face sending him reeling. He hid the agonizing stab in his abdomen from that chuckle until she’d left, shutting the door behind her. Rolling his head over to sleep again, he dreamt of seeing her the next day, getting the time to ask her a question that would be answered when he took his first steps out of his sterile room.


End file.
